On - - - - Asleep.

Sleep on, and dream of Heav'n awhile.
Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes,
Thy rosy lips still seem to smile,
And move, and breathe delicious sighs!--

Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks,
And mantle o'er her neck of snow.
Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks
What most I wish--and fear to know.

She starts, she trembles, and she weeps!
Her fair hands folded on her breast.
--And now, how like a saint she sleeps!
A seraph in the realms of rest!

Sleep on secure! Above controul,
Thy thoughts belong to Heav'n and thee!
And may the secret of thy soul
Repose within its sanctuary!

Samuel Rogers

Samuel Rogers was an English poet during the Romantic period. Born in 1763, he grew a reputation not for his volume of work but rather for the elegance and refinement of his poetry. His notable works include 'The Pleasures of Memory' which was well received. Rogers was also known for his role as a patron of the arts and his significant art collection. He passed away in 1855 and is often remembered more for his influence in literary circles than for his poetry itself.

Samuel Rogers

A Character.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

To The Youngest Daughter Of Lady **.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

To A Friend On His Marriage.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

The Alps At Day-Break.

Samuel Rogers, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Sleeping Boy.

Sleep on! Sleep on! beguiling
    The hours with happy rest.
Sleep! - by that dreamy smiling,
    I know that thou art blest.
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    To guard thee from annoy,
And the angel of the innocent
    Was in that dream, my boy!

The tinting of the summer rose
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The Snowdrop Monument (In Lichfield Cathedral).

        Marvels of sleep, grown cold!
        Who hath not longed to fold
With pitying ruth, forgetful of their bliss,
        Those cherub forms that lie,
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Or touch the silent lips with one warm human kiss?

        What! they are left alone
        All night with graven stone,
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        The journeying stars can spy,
And dim blue moonbeams drop on their uncovered feet?

        O cold! yet look again,
        There is a wandering vein
Traced in the hand where those white snowdrops lie.
        Let her rapt dreamy smile
        The wondering heart beguile,
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Song.

"Sleep, like a lover, woo thee,
                    Isabel!
And golden dreams come to thee,
                    Like a spell
By some sweet angel drawn!
Noiseless hands shall seal thy slumber,
Setting stars its moments number,
                    So, sleep thou on!

The night above thee broodeth,
                    Hushed and deep;
But no dark thought intrudeth
                    On the sleep
Which folds thy senses now.
Gentle spirits float around thee,
Gentle rest hath softly bound thee,
                    For pure art thou!

And now thy spirit fleeth
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And fancy's vision seeth
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To Emma Abbott

There--let thy hands be folded
Awhile in sleep's repose;
The patient hands that wearied not,
But earnestly and nobly wrought
In charity and faith;
And let thy dear eyes close--
The eyes that looked alway to God,
Nor quailed beneath the chastening rod
Of sorrow;
Fold thou thy hands and eyes
For just a little while,
And with a smile
Dream of the morrow.

And, O white voiceless flower,
The dream which thou shalt dream
Should be a glimpse of heavenly things,
For yonder like a seraph sings
The sweetness of a life
With faith alway its theme;
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The messenger of that dear love
That healeth sorrow.
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How he sleepeth! having drunken
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Throw them earthward where they grew.
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Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden
From the paths they sprang beneath,
Now perhaps divinely holden,
Swing against him in a wreath
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Vision unto vision calleth,
While the young child dreameth on.
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