Sleep, the accustomed companion of night, inhabits the lower regions,
though Ovid has placed his palace in the cold Scythia.
----------------"In his dark abode
Deep in a cavern dwells the drowsy god,
Whose gloomy mansion nor the rising sun
Nor setting, visits, nor the lightsome noon;
But lazy vapours round the region fly,
Perpetual twilight and a doubtful sky;
No crowing cock does there his wings display
Nor with his horny bill provoke the day;
Nor watchful dogs, nor the more wakeful geese,
Disturb, with nightly noise, the sacred peace:
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Nor beast of nature nor the laws, are nigh,
Nor trees with tempests rocked, nor human cry,
But safe repose, without an air of breath,
Dwells here, and a dumb quiet next to death,
An arm of Lethe with a gentle flow,
Arising upward from the rock below,
The palace moats, and o'er the pebbles creeps,
And with soft murmurs calls the coming sleeps.
Around its entry nodding poppies grew,
And all cool simples that sweet rest bestow;
Night from the plants their sleepy virtue drains,
And passing, sheds it on the silent plains:
No door there was th' unguarded house to keep,
On creaking hinges turned to break his sleep.
But in the gloomy court was raised a bed,
Stuffed with black plumes, and in an ebon stead;
Black was the covering too where lay the god,
And slept supine, his limbs displayed abroad."