Classic Poem

Father, whom none hath ever seen;
And Christ, the Father's Voice, be nigh;
Kind Spirit, who hath ever been.

One force, one light, of Trinity:
God; and eternal God of God;
God out of both eternally.

Labour of day hath ceased to plod;
The hour of rest returns; and sleep,
Loosing the limbs, doth lie abroad.

When anxious, careful minds drink deep
The vintage of oblivion,
Lethe doth through the members creep;

Till not a grief doth sit upon
The mind; nor sense of wasting care
Remaineth to the woe-begone.

God's law of mercy everywhere
To fragile bodies; that a sweet
Should temper labour with repair.

Whilst rest through all the veins doth fleet,
And soothe the breast with whelming sleep,
Wherein the quiet heart doth beat,

With strong-winged strength the sense doth sweep
The air; and sees in varied guise
The things which else are over-deep.

For, freed from sorrow or surprise,
The mind, whose origin is heaven,
Inert, its source, the air, denies.

Through all its native phases driven,
It loves the thousand flights unflown,
Joys in the subtle action given.

The sense of those in slumber prone
The unlearnt splendour wanders through
Which gives the future to be known.

But lying images (the true
Being hence) the spirits, sad with fear,
Deceive with wiles not small nor few.

Whom life with faults hath failed to smear
Too frequently, the vibrant light
Teacheth, and bringeth deep things near.

But unto him whose heart, unright,
With vice hath fouled him—him, distressed,
Terror shows visions which affright.

The faithfullest evangelist
Of Christ saw in the distant cloud
Hid signs, and hidden knowledge wist:

The Lamb of God, in purple shroud
Of slaughter, who unsealed the book,
(None else with grace enough endowed)

Whose great hand, armed with lightning, took
The two-edged sword in his control,
And threatening a double stroke.

Sole judge of body this, of soul,
And this sword, doubly to be shunned,
Is the two deaths, the double dole.

John, the just hero, thus unbound
His mind with sleep that, with his ghost,
Free it might tread ethereal ground.

Do not let us increase the host
Of those whom thronging errors fill,
Whose vain desires are uppermost.

Enough for us if sweet and still
Repose refresh the wearied frame;
If sleep portend us nothing ill.

Remember, bearer of Christ's Name,
The sacred dew of baptism, dread
Lest thou shouldst bring it into shame.

Sleep calling, finding thy chaste bed,
See that the figure of the cross
Be signed upon thy breast, thy head.

All sin and darkness fly the cross,
And, designated with such a sign,
The mind to swerve is at a loss.

May no grim portents undermine
Our sleep, of roving dreams; be far
The Liar, with his dark design.

O tortuous serpent, thousand are
Thy lithe meanderings of fraud,
Seeking the calm of hearts to mar.

Hence, Christ is here, go far abroad;
Hence, Christ is here; thyself hast known
This sign, which damns thy neighbourhood.

The drooping body, sunk and prone,
Is suffered to lie back a space;
Even in sleep, vouchsafed the grace
The love of Christ to think upon.