 | Poems |  |
83
ASLEEP.
Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep,
From the men who toil to the babes that creep;
From the fiends who lurk where serpents hiss,
To the child that rests with a mother's kiss;
From the youth who courts love's dreamy spell,
To the death-doomed wretch in the prison cell;
From the millionaire on his restless bed,
To the beggar who begs for his daily bread.
Winds may sweep,
And cares may creep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
From the men who toil to the babes that creep;
From the fiends who lurk where serpents hiss,
To the child that rests with a mother's kiss;
From the youth who courts love's dreamy spell,
To the death-doomed wretch in the prison cell;
From the millionaire on his restless bed,
To the beggar who begs for his daily bread.
Winds may sweep,
And cares may creep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep,
And who shall tell of the dreams that creep—
The varied visions of joy and pain,
That toil or dart through the waiting brain?
From the restless lad who yearns to roam,
To the wanderer, dreaming of friends and home;
From the boy who longs for older ways,
To the man, who sighs for his childhood days;
From the maiden who waits for the wedding bell,
To the outcast, shrinking from death and hell!
Passions may leap,
And dreams may creep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
And who shall tell of the dreams that creep—
The varied visions of joy and pain,
That toil or dart through the waiting brain?
From the restless lad who yearns to roam,
To the wanderer, dreaming of friends and home;
From the boy who longs for older ways,
84
From the maiden who waits for the wedding bell,
To the outcast, shrinking from death and hell!
Passions may leap,
And dreams may creep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
Asleep! asleep! we are all asleep;
And who shall tell of the spirits that keep
Their guarding about our silent beds,
Their vigils above unconscious heads?
Of fathers who pity their suffering ones,
Of mothers who weep for their erring sons?
Or who shall tell what mortals lie
Some ghastly phantom hovering nigh,
Some grieved, or ruined, or murdered one,
That curses the form it gazes on?
Ghosts may creep,
And phantoms sweep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
And who shall tell of the spirits that keep
Their guarding about our silent beds,
Their vigils above unconscious heads?
Of fathers who pity their suffering ones,
Of mothers who weep for their erring sons?
Or who shall tell what mortals lie
Some ghastly phantom hovering nigh,
Some grieved, or ruined, or murdered one,
That curses the form it gazes on?
Ghosts may creep,
And phantoms sweep,
But wake us not—we are all asleep.
Asleep! asleep! not all asleep;
There are those who watch and those who weep;
There are those who long for the tardy dawn,
There are those who pale as the night wears on;
There are those who revel, with giddy brain,
And those who are mourning on beds of pain;
There are those who watch by the sufferer's side,
There are those who wait and creep and hide;
There are those who touch the tuneful lyre,
And those who are fighting the fiend of fire!
Robbers may creep,
And flames may leap—
Though rest be precious, not all may sleep.
There are those who watch and those who weep;
There are those who long for the tardy dawn,
There are those who pale as the night wears on;
There are those who revel, with giddy brain,
And those who are mourning on beds of pain;
There are those who watch by the sufferer's side,
There are those who wait and creep and hide;
There are those who touch the tuneful lyre,
85
Robbers may creep,
And flames may leap—
Though rest be precious, not all may sleep.
Asleep! asleep! we all must sleep,
In a long last slumber, heavy and deep,
'Neath clods of clay and moving forms,
'Neath suns of Summer and moaning storms;
In vaults of marble and nameless graves,
'Neath verdant meadows and ocean waves;
Joining the millions still and dumb,
And waiting the millions yet to come.
Friends may weep,
And troubles may sweep—
They will wake us not from our breathless sleep!
In a long last slumber, heavy and deep,
'Neath clods of clay and moving forms,
'Neath suns of Summer and moaning storms;
In vaults of marble and nameless graves,
'Neath verdant meadows and ocean waves;
Joining the millions still and dumb,
And waiting the millions yet to come.
Friends may weep,
And troubles may sweep—
They will wake us not from our breathless sleep!
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