Again to that accustomed couch must creep
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep,
And man o'er-laboured 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,

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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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CANTO II.

LARA.

CANTO II.

I.

NIGHT wanes the vapours round the mountains curl'd

Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world.
Man has another day to swell the past,
And lead him near to little, but his last;
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,

The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth,
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam,
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Immortal man! behold her glories shine,

And cry, exulting inly, "they are thine!"

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