Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies,
Till wearied out, with thinking o’er the past,
The mind surrenders to the body’s guide
And dreams of fancy dance before the eye.
Blest labor! thou dost fringe the poor man’s lids
With gold: and drive remembrance of his wrongs
Away—hang o’er his drowsy visions scenes
Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot
Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night! to him what are
The ills of day, if thou but shelter him