Beyond the sunset, and the amber sea
To the lone depths of Ether, cold and bare,
Thy influence, Soul of all tranquillity,
Hallows the Earth, and awes the reverent air;
Yon laughing rivulet quells its silvery tune, —
The Pines, like priestly watchers tall and grim,
Stand mute, against the pensive twilight dim,
Breathless to hail the advent of the Moon;
From the white beach the Ocean falls away
Coyly, and with a thrill; the sea-birds dart
Ghostlike from out the distance, and depart
With a gray fleetness, moaning the dead Day;
The wings of Silence overfolding space,
Droop with dusk grandeur from the heavenly steep,
And through the stillness gleams thy starry face,
Serenest Angel — Sleep!
Come! woo me here, amid these flowery charms,
Breathe on my eyelids; press thy odorous lips
Close to mine own, enwreathe me in thine arms,
And cloud my spirit with thy sweet eclipse; —
No dreams! no dreams! keep back the motley throng, —
For such are girded round with ghastly might,
And sing low burdens of despondent song,
Decked in the mockery of a lost delight; —
I ask Oblivion's balsam! the mute peace
Toned to still breathings, and the gentlest sighs, —
Not music woven of rarest harmonies
Could yield me such elysium of release: —
The tones of Earth are weariness, — not only
'Mid the loud mart, and in the walks of trade,
But where the mountain Genius broodeth lonely,
In the cool pulsing of the sylvan shade: —
Then, bear me far into thy noiseless land,
Surround me with thy silence, deep on deep,
Until serene I stand
Close by a duskier country, and more grand,
Mysterious Solitude, than thine, O Sleep!

As he whose veins a feverous frenzy burns,
Whose life-blood withers in the fiery drouth, —
Feebly, and with a languid longing, turns
To the spring breezes gathering from the South, —
So, feebly, and with languid longing, I
Turn to thy wished Nepenthe, and implore
The golden dimness, the purpureal gloom
Which haunt thy poppied realm, and make the shore
Of thy dominion balmy with all bloom: —
In the clear gulfs of thy serene Profound,
Worn Passions sink to quiet, Sorrows pause,
Suddenly fainting to still-breathed rest; —
Thou own'st a magical atmosphere, which awes
The memories seething in the turbulent breast;
Which muffling up the sharpness of all sound
Of mortal lamentation, — solely bears
The silvery minor toning of our woe,
All mellowed to harmonious underflow, —
Soft as the sad farewells of dying years, —
Lulling as sunset showers that veil the West,
And sweet as Love's last tears
When overwelling hearts do mutely weep: —
O Griefs! O wailings! your tempestuous madness,
Merged in a regal quietude of sadness,
Wins a strange glory by the streams of Sleep!

Then woo me here amid these flowery charms,
Breathe on my eyelids, press thy odorous lips
Close to mine own, — enfold me in thine arms,
And cloud my spirit with thy sweet eclipse; —
And while from waning depth to depth I fall,
Down lapsing to the utmost depths of all, —
Till wan forgetfulness obscurely stealing,
Creeps like an incantation on the soul, —
And o'er the slow ebb of my conscious life
Dies the thin flush of the last conscious feeling, —
And like abortive thunder, the dull roll
Of sullen passions ebbs far, far away, —
O Angel! loose the chords which cling to strife,
Sever the gossamer bondage of my breath, —
And let me pass gently as winds in May,
From the dim realm which owns thy shadowy sway,
To THY diviner Sleep, O sacred Death!