Sleep sound, dear love! Though the winds be high,
And the dark clouds drift through the troubled sky;
Though the rising waters foam and roar,
And mournfully howl round the tortured shore;
Ill sounds from thy slumber be far away,
And soft be thy dreams as a summer's day.
Sleep sound; Though the world be weary with fears,
And eyes that love thee be sad with tears,
Yet never a sorrow break thy rest,
And never a pang shoot through thy breast;
No shadows pass o'er thy closed eyes,
But their visions be visions of paradise.
Sleep sound, sweet love; Till the morning's light
Lead up a new day with its fresh delight;
Till the welcome sun, as it mounts above,
Recal thee to duty and peace and love,
To a calm existence, untouched by strife,
And a quiet round of a holy life.
Thomas James Pryor's poem (or did he find it somewhere, like it, and copy it? We don't know) indicates a loving sensitive nature, as does his letter in the Weekly Dispatch.
Reg Prior tells the tale that his father and his uncle who were direct descendants of Thomas James and were both in business in Harwell at the same time, suffered from confusion with their mail. Reg's father changed his name to Prior and so brothers and sisters of the same family have different spellings on their birth certificates.