Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN SICKNESS .

In vain, sweet Sleep! I supplicate thine aid,
Image of Death, in mildest form array'd;
Oh! grant thy healing grace and soothing pow'r,
May balmy blessings on my senses show'r.
Rack'd on the Wheel of Fancy, Reason dies,
And Hope, suspended, seems a dubious prize.
But art thou still inflexible, severe,
Deaf to complaint, and blind to Virtue's tear?
Oh! deign to strengthen, and in quiet keep,
My various faculties, sweet gentle Sleep;
That not exhausted, but refresh'd they prove,
To thee their gratitude, and ardent love;
By thee enabled, trials to sustain,
And e'en support depressions weighty chain.
Shadow of things to come, fair temp'ral peace,
Earnest of bliss, and joys which ne'er can cease,
Reflection's friend, the nurse of calm delight,
Still with thy presence bless my weary sight.
Renew thy early gifts, nor yet refuse,
This invocation, from an humble Muse;
To pleaded reason, lend a gracious ear,
So shalt thou soon her loudest plaudits hear!