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Charlotte Smith - Sonnet XI. To Sleep
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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.
Clasp`d 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 labour, liberty, and love.
But still thy opiate aid dost thou deny
To calm the anxious breast; to close the streaming eye.
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