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150
IV.
SLEEP.
Sweetest of mysteries!—thy dews reviveHearts that seemed blighted by toil's wasting rime;
They start from thy embrace again to strive,
And with new ardor breast the surge of time.
Blest interlude! whose music conquers care,
Maternal sleep, how soon away from thee
Does life her young enchantments vainly wear,
And all our sense of pleasure cease to be!
Thou art the angel that doth come at night
To set us free, as was the saint of yore;
The blessing that doth crown us for the fight,
The fount perennial on a barren shore:
Thine is the gift of dreams, the trance of love,
And in thy breast peace nestles like a dove.
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