n short,
Of the regular sort,
But the housemaid call'd them "Cupidities."

CLXXX.

No patchwork quilt, all seams and scars,
But velvet, powder'd with golden stars,
A fit mantle for _Night_-Commanders!
And the pillow, as white as snow undimm'd
And as cool as the pool that the breeze has skimmed,
Was cased in the finest cambric, and trimm'd
With the costliest lace of Flanders.

CLXXXI.

And the bed--of the Eider's softest down,
'Twas a place to revel, to smother, to drown
In a bliss inferr'd by the Poet;
For if Ignorance be indeed a bliss,
What blessed ignorance equals this,
To sleep--and not to know it?

CLXXXII.

Oh bed! oh bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head;
But a place that to name would be ill-bred,
To the head with a wakeful trouble--
'Tis held by such a different lease!
To one, a place of comfort and peace,
All stuff'd with the down of stubble geese,
To another with only the stubble!

CLXXXIII.

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!

CLXXXIV.

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!_

CLXXXV.

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 Crookback'd Tyrant Care
Had plotted to kill them sleeping.

CLXXXVI.

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!

CLXXXVII.

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.

CLXXXVIII.

There's Morbid, all bile, and verjuice, and nerves,
Where other people would make preserves,
He turns his fruits into pickles:
Je