SLEEP, happy boy, there sleep, and take thy rest, Free from the passions which disturb my breast; Yet know 'tis Innocence that thee has freed, And lets thee sleep so quiet on this bed. Thy wearied limbs have sweetly rested here, If with less sun, in a more happy sphere; Whilst in despair my soul afflicted lies, And of mere envy to behold thee, dies. Dream, thou enjoy'st more true felicity, Than lavish fortune can bestow on thee; That thou amidst such precious gems art hurl'd, Are able to enrich th' insatiate world: That thou the Phoenix shalt transcend in fame, Who sleep'st, and risest, in a purer flame; That thou'rt an Angel, Heav'n's that lap I view: Yet all this while, it is no dream, but true. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GARRISON by AMOS BRONSON ALCOTT VANITAS VANITATUM, FR. THE DEVIL'S CASE LAW by JOHN WEBSTER TO CHLOE by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS IMAGES: 2 by RICHARD ALDINGTON WILD ROSES AND SNOW by H. T. MACKENZIE BELL THE GOOD SAMARITAN by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD THE LORDS' MASQUE: THE MASQUERS SECOND DANCE by THOMAS CAMPION |