Address to Sleep

Is Death, which has been branded as a curse,
Too fair a guest to visit one abhorr'd?
Then art thou welcome in my fearful need,
Care-soothing Sleep, thou relative of Death,
Who now alone canst still my inward grief;
Protector of the wrung and tortured heart,
Who to the weary frame and woe-worn mind
Bring'st the full goblet of Oblivion's sweets.
Oh! that illusion would so fill my brain,
That the frame's rest might from the spirit keep
Those dreadful images, which are impress'd,
By the departed anguish of the day,
On the weak judgment!