Classic Poem

Where Somnus' temple rises from a ground,
Spreading a gloomy, dusky shade around,
The poppy, blushing with its livid red,
Rises, and nodding waves its drowsy head.
Blest flower! whose juice such influence contains,
As quells the body's agonising pains;
And gently lulls into a soothing rest
The swelling sorrows of a troubled breast;
All my attempts, great sov'reign, are too low,
In numbers worthy of thyself, to show
The great acknowledgements to thee we owe.
When, deaf to prayers and tears, th' obdurate fair
Looks on her suppliant with an haughty air;
When with a careless look she hears him trace
The sev'ral beauties of her shape and face;
Hears the dear titles, angel, charmer, queen,
With seemingly an absent air and mien;
Full of despair, to mitigate his grief
To thee he flies, and finds a sure relief;
In one soft hour the supercilious eye,
The toss indignant and the keen reply,
Are all hushed up and lost: the downy balm
Lulls all the boiling passions to a calm.
The evils or the cares of life, t' evade,
Not the rude vulgar only crave thy aid.
Impartially beneficent! e'en he
Who sweats beneath the load of majesty,
Fatigued with honour or the cares of state
(The sad insep'rables of being great),
Delights his regal honours to resign
To thee, and worship humbly at thy shrine.
'Tis not still silence nor a bed of down:
Thou great specific, thou can'st blunt alone
Those thorns, which line the circle of a crown.
But most of all, and most in vain, implores
The guilty wretch thy sov'reign healing powers.
Where'er he moves, a train of plagues display
Their several terrors in a dread array;
'Tis now he sees the injured widow's tears,
And now relenting hears the orphan's pray'rs;
Eternal sorrows being thus begun,
Where shall he go? himself he cannot shun:
'Tis true, by thee the terrors of his breast
Are, for a while, hushed to a soothing rest;
But the relief is short; a while — and then
His baleful company awake again,
And of thy absence dreadfully complain.
Thrice happy, who in virtue's paths delight,
Whose lives, like harmless infants' tears, invite
The gentle slumbers of the peaceful night.
But while thy dosing virtues I rehearse,
I feel thy drowsy influence in my verse;
And lest, great sirs, to you it should extend,
Command your sleepy poet to descend.