Of this, the Gnostic’s privilege, a trace’d suffice
To rob of sleep and reason vulgar souls of ice.
His spirit wanders in the groves of th’ absolute.
His soul is easy; body, still, calm, quiet, mute.—
In sleep thou bearest no burden; borne thou art, instead.
Know then, thy sleep’s a foretaste of what is to come,
From the rapt state of saints arriving at their home.
The saints were well prefigured by the “Sleeper’s Seven,”
“Their sleep,” “their stretchings,” “their awaking” lead to heaven.—