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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454934" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode II: To Sleep</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.<br>Thou silent power, whose welcome sway<br>Charms every anxious thought away;<br>In whose divine oblivion drown'd,<br>Sore pain and weary toil grow mild,<br>Love is with kinder looks beguil'd,<br>And grief forgets her fondly-cherish'd wound;<br>Oh whither hast thou flown, indulgent god?<br>God of kind shadows and of healing dews,<br>Whom dost thou touch with thy Lethæan rod?<br>Around whose temples now thy opiate airs diffuse?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">II.<br>Lo, midnight from her starry reign<br>Looks awful down on earth and main.<br>The tuneful birds lie hush'd in sleep,<br>With all that crop the verdant food,<br>With all that skim the crystal flood,<br>Or haunt the caverns of the rocky steep.<br>No rushing winds disturb the tufted bowers;<br>No wakeful sound the moon-light valley knows,<br>Save where the brook its liquid murmur pours,<br>And lulls the waving scene to more profound repose.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">III.<br>Oh let not me alone complain,<br>Alone invoke thy power in vain!<br>Descend, propitious, on my eyes;<br>Not from the couch that bears a crown,<br>Not from the courtly statesman's down,<br>Nor where the miser and his treasure lies:<br>Bring not the shapes that break the murderer's rest,<br>Nor those the hireling soldier loves to see,<br>Nor those which haunt the bigot's gloomy breast:<br>Far be their guilty nights, and far their dreams from me!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">IV.<br>Nor yet those awful forms present,<br>For chiefs and heroes only meant:<br>The figur'd brass, the choral song,<br>The rescued people's glad applause,<br>The listening senate, and the laws<br>Fix'd by the counsels of Timoleon's tongue,<br>Are scenes too grand for fortune's private ways;<br>And though they shine in youth's ingenuous view,<br>The sober gainful arts of modern days<br>To such romantic thoughts have bid a long adieu.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">V.<br>I ask not, god of dreams, thy care<br>To banish Love's presentments fair:<br>Nor rosy cheek nor radiant eye<br>Can arm him with such strong command<br>That the young sorcerer's fatal hand<br>Should round my soul his pleasing fetters tie.<br>Nor yet the courtier's hope, the giving smile<br>(A lighter phantom, and a baser chain)<br>Did e'er in slumber my proud lyre beguile<br>To lend the pomp of thrones her ill-according strain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">VI.<br>But, Morpheus, on thy balmy wing<br>Such honorable visions bring,<br>As sooth'd great Milton's injur'd age,<br>When in prophetic dreams he saw<br>The race unborn with pious awe<br>Imbibe each virtue from his heavenly page:<br>Or such as Mead's benignant fancy knows<br>When health's deep treasures, by his art explor'd,<br>Have sav'd the infant from an orphan's woes,<br>Or to the trembling sire his age's hope restor'd.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mark+Akenside">Mark Akenside</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=454934" data-title="Ode II: To Sleep de Mark Akenside" data-description="I.
Thou silent power, whose welcome sway
Charms every anxious thought away;
In whose divine oblivion drown'd,
Sore pain and weary toil grow mild,
Love is with kinder looks beguil'd,
And grief forgets her fondly-cherish'd wound;
Oh whither hast tho..."></div>
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