Awake your deepest sympathy.
Mary Howitt.
38. Sleep,—soft closer of our eyes,
Low murmurer of tender lullabies.
Keats.
39. You love the sweet Sabbath, that bids in repose
The plough in its mid-furrow stand.
Dr. Gilman.
40. Pleasant it is when woods are green,
And winds are soft and low,