Dirge, at the hearse of Chrysostom.
Sleep, poor Youth, sleep in peace,
Relieved from love and mortal care;
Whilst we, that pine in life’s disease,
Uncertain-bless’d, less happy are.
Couch’d in the dark and silent grave,
No ills of fate thou now can’st fear;
In vain would tyrant Power enslave,
Or scornful Beauty be severe.
Wars, that do fatal storms disperse,
Far from thy happy mansion keep;
Earthquakes, that shake the universe,
Can’t rock thee into sounder sleep.
With all the charms of peace possest,
Secure from life’s torment or pain,
Sleep, and indulge thyself with rest;
Nor dream thou e’er shalt rise again.[369]
C. L.
[369] i. e. “may thy sleep be so profound, as not even by dreams of a resurrection to be disturbed:” the language of passion, not of sincere profaneness.