british literature 2

 
To Sleep

Come balmy Sleep! tired Nature’s soft resort!On these sad temples all thy poppies shed;And bid gay dreams from Morpheus’ airy court,Float in light vision round my aching head!Secure of all thy blessings, partial Power!On his hard bed the peasant throws him down;And the poor sea boy, in the rudest hour,Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown.Clasped in her faithful shepherd’s guardian arms,Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove,And they, O gentle Sleep! still taste thy charms,Who wake to labor, liberty and love.But still thy opiate aid dost thou denyTo calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye. 

 
Charlotte Smith
to night 
I love thee, mournful, sober-suited Night!
When the faint moon, yet lingering in her wane.
And veil’d in clouds, with pale uncertain light
Hangs o’er the waters of the restless main.
In deep depression sunk, the enfeebled mind
Will to the deaf cold elements complain,
And tell the embosom’d grief, however vain,
To sullen surges and the viewless wind.
Tho’ no repose on that dark breast I find,
I still enjoy thee—cheerless as thou art;
For in thy quiet gloom the exhausted heart
Is calm, tho’ wretched; hopeless, yet resign’d.
While to the winds and waves its sorrows given,
May reach—tho’ lost on earth—the ear of Heaven!