When drowsy slumbers o'er the spirits creep,
Reflect, what Death is, from its image, Sleep!
In airy dreams the soul then wings its way,
Freed from the dull impediments of clay,
Holds converse sweet with every kindred power,
In myrtle grove, or amaranthin bower;
Thro' worlds unknown quick darts the vital flame,
And traverses all heaven, from whence it came.