Samuel Rogers (1763–1855)

SLEEP on, and dream of Heaven awhile—

Tho’ shut so close thy laughing eyes.

Thy rosy lips still wear a smile

And more, and breathe delicious sighs!

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks

And mantle o’er her neck of snow:

Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks

What most I wish—and fear to know!

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!

Her fair hands folded on her breast:

—And now, how like a saint she sleeps!

A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul

Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee:

And may the secret of thy soul

Remain within its sanctuary!