Classic Poem

Thus lovely, Sleep did first appear,
 E're yet it was with Death ally'd;
When the first fair one , like her here,
  Lay down , and for a little dy'd .

E're happy Souls knew how to dye ,
 And trod the rougher Paths to Bliss ,
Transported in an Extasie ,
 They breath'd out such smooth waies , as this.

Her Hand bears gently up her Head ,
 And like a Pillow , rais'd does keep;
But softer then her Couch , is spread,
 Though that be softer , then her Sleep .

Alas! that death-like Sleep , or Night ,
 Should power have to close those Eyes ;
Which once vy'd with the fairest Light ,
 Or what gay Colours , thence did rise.

Ah! that lost Beams , thus long have shin'd,
 To them, with Darkness over-spread,
Unseen, as Day breaks , to the Blind ,
 Or the Sun rises , to the Dead .

That Sun , in all his Eastern Pride ,
 Did never see a Shape so rare,
Nor Night , within its black Arms hide
 A silent Beauty , half so fair .