To one, a perfect Halcyon nest, All calm, and balm and quiet, and rest, And soft as the fur of the cony-- To another, so restless for body and head, That the bed seems borrow’d from Nettlebed, And the pillow from Stratford the Stony! To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease, To the Land of Nod, or where you please; But alas! for the watchers and weepers, Who turn, and turn, and turn again, But turn, and turn, and turn in vain, With an anxious brain, And thoughts in a train, That does not run upon _sleepers_! Wide awake as the mousing owl, Night-hawk, or other nocturnal fowl,-- But more profitless vigils keeping,-- Wide awake in the dark they stare, Filling with phantoms the vacant air, As if that Crook-back’d Tyrant Care Had plotted to kill them sleeping. And oh! when the blessed diurnal light Is quench’d by the providential night, To render our slumber more certain! Pity, pity the wretches that weep, For they must be wretched, who cannot sleep When God himself draws the curtain! The careful Betty the pillow beats, And airs the blankets, and smooths the sheets, And gives the mattress a shaking-- But vainly Betty performs her part, If a ruffled head and a rumpled heart, As well as the couch, want making. There’s Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves, Where other people would make preserves, He turns his fruits into pickles: Jealous, envious, and fretful by day, At night, to his own sharp fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog roll’d up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles. But a child--that bids the world good night, In downright earnest and cuts it quite-- A Cherub no Art can copy,-- ’Tis a perfect picture to see him lie As if he had supp’d on a dormouse pie, (An ancient classical dish, by the by) With a sauce of syrup of poppy. Oh, bed! bed! bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head, Whether lofty or low its condition! But instead of putting our plagues on shelves, In our blankets how often we toss ourselves, Or are toss’d by such allegorical elves As Pride, Hate, Greed, and Ambition! The independent Miss Kilmansegg Took off her independent Leg And laid it beneath her pillow, And then on the bed her frame she cast, The time for repose had come at last, But long, long, after the storm is past Rolls the turbid, turbulent billow. No part she had in vulgar cares That belong to common household affairs-- Nocturnal annoyances such as theirs, Who lie with a shrewd surmising, That while they are couchant (a bitter cup!) Their bread and butter are getting up, And the coals, confound them, are rising.