And in that sleep of death...

I've been flipping through a fantastic collection of sonnets lately, starting from the Tudor era and continuing through the 1960s confessional poets. There's a lot that's overwrought, especially panegyrics to some usually very generic lady whose fame and beauty will eternally be sung renowned because some jackass wrote 14 lines of fluff about her nose.


But here's one written in the early 16th century that gives me both peace and disquiet. Is a lullaby an ode to death?

"Sleep, silence' child"

William Drummond

Sleep, Silence' child, sweet father of soft rest,
Prince, whose approach peace to all mortals brings,
Indifferent host to shepherds and to kings,
Sole comforter of minds with grief opprest;
Lo, by thy charming rod all breathing things
Lie slumb'ring, with forgetfulness possest,
And yet o'er me to spread thy drowsy wings
Thou spares, alas! who cannot be thy guest.
Since I am thine, O come, but with that face
To inward light which thou art wont to show,
With feigned solace ease a true-felt woe;
Or if, deaf god, thou do deny that grace,
Come as thou wilt, and what thou wilt bequeath,
I long to kiss the image of my death.