For I am weary of the light of day.
Or call to Sleep, thy mild dejected twin,
And when the rosy-fingered Morn shall rise,
Will ye aloft upon the healthy wind,
That blows from out her dewy balconies,
Waft me to those calm isles, whose tribes obey
Sky-fallen Saturn’s ever peaceful sway?
IONIA.
Ye lands and immemorial isles, that bear