  Go, little book, and coyly creep Beneath the pillows of the blest, Whence those who seek in vain for sleep Shall drag thee from thy nest; That so thy sedative aroma May lull them to a state of coma. The infant child who lies awake, Within its tiny trundle-bed, No soothing potion needs to take, If thou art duly read; And hosts of harassed monthly nurses Shall bless thy soporific verses. The invalid who cannot rest Has but at thy contents to glance To hug thee to his fevered breast And fall into a trance; And sleepless patients without number Shall hail thee harbinger of slumber. Go then, fond offspring of the Muse, Perform thy deadly work by night, Thou rich man's boon, thou widow's cruse, Thou orphan-child's delight! Appease the heirs from all the ages With balm from thine hypnotic pages! So in the palace of the king, The mansion of the millionaire, Thy readers shall combine to sing Thy praises ev'rywhere, Till folks in less exalted places Scream loudly for Familiar Faces! (When, if their cries are shrill and healthy, I shall become extremely wealthy!) |
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