The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;

The courteous host, and all-approving guest,

Again to that accustomed couch must creep 630

Where Joy subsides, and Sorrow sighs to sleep,

And Man, o'erlaboured with his Being's strife,

Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:

There lie Love's feverish hope, and Cunning's guile,[kf]

Hate's working brain, and lulled Ambition's wile;

O'er each vain eye Oblivion's pinions wave,

And quenched Existence crouches in a grave.[kg]

What better name may Slumber's bed become?

Night's sepulchre, the universal home,

Where Weakness—Strength—Vice—Virtue—sunk supine, 640

Alike in naked helplessness recline;

Glad for a while to heave unconscious breath,

Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of Death,

And shun—though Day but dawn on ills increased—

That sleep,—the loveliest, since it dreams the least.