Sleeping On Her Couch

Thus lovely, Sleep did first appear,
E're yet it was with Death ally'd
When the first fair one, like her here,
Lay down, and for a little dy'd.

E're happy souls knew how to dye,
And trod the rougher Paths to Bliss,
Transported in an extasie,
They breath'd out such smooth waies, as this.

Her hand bears gently up her Head,
And like a pillow, rais'd does keep;
But softer than her Couch, is spread,
Though that be softer, than her sleep.

Alas! that death-like Sleep, or Night,
Should power have to close those Eyes;
Which once vy'd with the fairest Light,
Or what gay Colours, thence did rise.

Ah! that lost beams, thus long have shin'd,
To them, with Darkness over-spread,
Unseen, as Day breaks, to the blind,
Or the sun rises, to the dead.

That sun, in all his Eastern Pride,
Did never see a shape so rare,
Nor night, within it's black Arms hide
A silent beauty, half so fair.



                             Richard Leigh (Poems, 1675)

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