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CANTO THE FIRSTXXIX
The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest;
The courteous host, and all-approving guest,
Again to that accustom`d couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,
And man, o`erlabour`d with his being`s strife,
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life:
There lie love`s feverish hope. and cunning`s guile,
Hate`s working brain and lull`d ambition`s wile;
O`er each vain eye oblivion`s pinions wave,
And quench`d existence crouches in a grave.
What better name may slumber`s bed become?
Night`s sepulchre, the universal home,
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine,
Alike in naked helplessness recline;
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath,
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death,
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased,
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least.
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