Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

NO, not more welcome the fairy numbers

Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear,

When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near—

Then came that voice, when, all forsaken,

This heart long had sleeping lain,

Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

To such benign, blessed sounds again.

Sweet voice of comfort! ’twas like the stealing

Of summer wind thro’ some wreathed shell—

Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

Of all my soul echoed to its spell;

’Twas whispered balm—’twas sunshine spoken!—

I’d live years of grief and pain

To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

By such benign, blessed sounds again.