The best of men have ever loved repose:
They hate to mingle in the filthy fray,
Where the soul sours, and gradual rancor grows,
Imbitter'd more from peevish day to day.
THOMSON: _Castle of Indolence,_ Canto i., St. 17.
Her suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,
And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.
JAMES ALDRICH: _A Death-Bed._