Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          NO, not more welcome the fairy numbers

                Of music fall on the sleeper’s ear,

          When half awaking from fearful slumbers,

                He thinks the full quire of heaven is near —

          Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,

                This heart long had sleeping lain,

          Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken

                To such benign blessed sounds again.

          Sweet voice of comfort! ’twas like the stealing

                Of summer wind through some wreathed shell —

          Each secret winding, each inmost feeling

                Of all my soul echoed to its spell.

          ’Twas whisper’d balm — ’twas sunshine spoken! —

                I’d live years of grief and pain

          To have my long sleep of sorrow broken

                By such benign blessed sounds again.