By Thomas Moore
Sic juvat perire.
When wearied wretches sink to sleep,
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!
How sweet is death to those who weep,
To those who weep and long to die!
Saw you the soft and grassy bed,
Where flowrets deck the green earth's breast?
'Tis there I wish to lay my head,
'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest.
Oh, let not tears embalm my tomb,--
None but the dews at twilight given!
Oh, let not sighs disturb the gloom,--
None but the whispering winds of heaven!