The northern spearman goes.
Our hills have dark and strong defiles,
With many an icy bed;
Heap there the rocks for funeral piles
Above the invader’s head!
Or let the seas, that guard our isles,
Give burial to his dead!
COME TO ME, GENTLE SLEEP!
[“Mrs Hemans writes for all tastes and for all ages, as well as for all nations, and therefore she may do well to write in all sorts of style and manner. And, at all events, she who pleases others so well, may be allowed at times to please herself. Such strains as the following might soothe the ear of Rhadamanthus, and charm Cerberus to slumber.”—Eclectic Review, 1834.]
Come to me, gentle Sleep!