THE NIGHT

BY HILAIRE BELLOC

Most Holy Night, that still dost keep
The keys of all the doors of sleep,
To me when my tired eyelids close
Give thou repose.

And let the far lament of them
That chaunt the dead day's requiem
Make in my ears, who wakeful lie,
Soft lullaby.

Let them that guard the hornèd Moon
By my bedside their memories croon.
So shall I have new dreams and blest
In my brief rest.

Fold thy great wings about my face, Hide day-dawn from my resting-place, And cheat me with thy false delight, Most Holy Night.

THE WHITE PATERNOSTER

(Old Rhyme)

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,

Bless the bed that I lie on!

Four corners to my bed,
Five angels there lie spread;

Two at my head,

Two at my feet,

One at my heart, my soul to keep.

TO SLEEP

BY SIR PHILIP SIDNEY

Come, Sleep, O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low.
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw;
O make in me those civil wars to cease!
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed;
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light;
A rosy garland, and a weary head.
And if these things, as being thine by right,
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me
Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

BY CHRISTOPHER MORLEY

Yet, in the end, you take us all, dear Sleep-
And not as now, when, even while we drowse
The mind, still rocking like an ocean bird,
Knows itself poised upon the unknowing gulf;

1 From Parson's Pleasure by Christopher Morley, copyright 1923, George H. Doran Co., publishers.

But when, all grateful and without wild words
The dark sea-rim enfolds us, circle-round.
A clear unrippled sea of endless calm.
And on the wave, not even a lonely gull.

From THE LOTOS-EATERS

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,

Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;

Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful

skies.

Here are cool mosses deep,

And thro' the moss the ivies creep,

And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

From THE FAERIE QUEENE

BY EDMUND SPENSER

And more to lulle him in his slumber soft,

A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, And ever-drizling raine upon the lost,

Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne Of swarming Bees, did cast him in a swowne.

No other noyse, nor peoples troublous cryes, As still are wont t'annoy the wallèd towne, Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet lyes Wrapt in eternall silence farre from enimyes.

From IL PENSEROSO

BY JOHN MILTON

There in close covert by some brook
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feathered sleep.

And let some strange mysterious dream.
Wave at his wings in airy stream.
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eyelids laid,

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or the unseen genius of the wood.

CARE-CHARMING SLEEP

BY JOHN FLETCHER

Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose

On this afflicted prince; fall like a cloud,
In gentle showers; give nothing that is loud,
Or painful to his slumbers; easy, sweet,
And as a purling stream, thou son of Night,
Pass by his troubled senses; sing his pain,
Little hollow murmuring wind or silver rain;
Into this prince gently, oh, gently slide,
And kiss him into slumber like a bride.

TO SLEEP (Extract)

BY NORMAN GALE

But thou, O Sleep, bend down and give
My fevered frame apparent death;
Receive my hands, caress my brow,
And send the incense of thy breath
About my temples while I weep,

Sleep, lest thou shouldst not hear me, Sleep.

On aching balls that roam the room
Thus set thy seals as one who stirs
About the bedside of the dead

And weighs down rebel lids of eyes
That look beyond for Paradise
With silver circles from a purse:

And when thy spell is on me cast,
And thou from out my chamber passed,
If haply Wakefulness be near

Say not that I am sleeping, dear,