by Eliza Acton
There is a low and lonely place of rest,
Upon whose couch the worn and wearied frame
Reposes in forgetfulness,-and there,
The streaming eye of misery is clos'd
In sweet and dreamless slumber;-on that bed
The painful beatings of the breaking heart
Are hush'd to stillness; and the harrowing pangs
Of hopeless agony, are felt no more!
Around that silent dwelling-place, the veil
Of darkness curtains closely:-not a sigh,
Nor lightest whisp'ring of the summer-wind
Steals on the breathless and eternal calm,
Which o'er that region spreads its canopy !
Last updated January 14, 2019