Robert Nicoll (1814–1837)

SLEEP on, sleep on, ye resting dead;

The grass is o’er ye growing

In dewy greenness. Ever fled

From you hath Care; and, in its stead,

Peace hath with you its dwelling made,

Where tears do cease from flowing.

Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: Ye do not feel

Life’s ever-burning fever—

Nor scorn that sears, nor pains that steel

And blanch the loving heart, until

’Tis like the bed of mountain-rill

Which waves have left for ever!

Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: Your couch is made

Upon your mother’s bosom;

Yea, and your peaceful lonely bed

Is all with sweet wild-flowers inlaid;

And over each earth-pillowed head

The hand of Nature strews them.

Sleep on!

Sleep on, sleep on: I would I were

At rest within your dwelling,—

No more to feel, no more to bear

The world’s falsehood and its care—

The arrows it doth never spare

On him whose feet are failing.

Sleep on!