Tir'd nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep.... YOUNG
BALMY slumber, sweet repose,
E'er my drowsy eye-lids close;
E'er I lay me down to rest,
E'er the downy couch be press'd;
While the stars are twinkling bright,
While the moon-beam gilds the night,
While the dew falls thick and damp
On the black's palmetto camp;
While on high the leafy trees,
Rustle, with the night-fall breeze:
And the watch-dog's bark I hear,
Feebly faint, or briskly clear:
E'er I bid the world good night,
Let my muse indulge a flight;
One amusing vigil keep,
In the vestibule of sleep.
Sweet oblivion of care,
Thousands to thy courts repair.
Thou art labour's sweet respite,
Welcome are the shades of night,
Welcome is the peasant's shed,
Pleasant is the porter's bed.
After drudging thro' the mire,
Thou the plough-boy's sweetest hire.
Here the weary is at rest;
Sleep is a refreshing guest.
Jaded in the burning soil,
Here the slave forgets his toil.
In his wigwam on the ground,
Sleeps the Indian hunter sound
By his side his dog and gun,
For the toilsome hunt is done.
Gently sinking to repose,
Here the sick forgets his woes.
Sorrow sleeps and finds relief,
Here the heart absolves its grief.
When within thy sacred charge,
The imprison'd walk at large;
And the manumited mind
Roves thro' nature unconfined.
Poverty in thee is rich,
Tho' he slumbers in a ditch;
While the veteran in his camp,
Sleeping on the ground so damp,
Puts before the morning light,
All his hostile foes to flight.
The rough seaman far from home,
Dashing thro' the roaring foam,
On the wide wave swelling sea,
Finds a quiet port in thee;
Lays him down with jacket wet,
Every danger to forget,
And in sweet oblivion lies,
Till the watch is call'd to rise.
THE SLAVES OF THE BEAUTIFUL ISLE.
BERMUDA, thy rocks are the mariners dread,
But calm and pellucid thy seas;
Thy skies in a vest of pure azure array'd,
Waft sweetly the health-giving breeze.
Fair blooms thy gilt orange and beautiful lime,
Whose acid refreshes the taste;
The sun never viewed a more temperate clime,
For the plains never felt a cold blast.
The sun and the showers in succession arise,
And nature delights in the sway;
And when the soft night-fall envelopes the skies,
How
pure
is the silver moon's ray.
In the blue bosom'd ocean amid madrepores,
A rock in the tempest torn deep; Milk-white are the breakers that foam on thy shores,
But the ledges have made many weep.
From the clamour of battle removed afar,
Thy vales are the harbours of peace;
But slavery all the mild blessings can mar,
Sweet Island, it is thy disgrace.
Thy vessels are rapid that skim the blue deep,
Thy cedars glide over the flood;
But the mariner slave is predestin'd to weep,
And mingle his tears with his food.
But still they are fond of the health-giving spot,
And prefer it to liberty's smile;
In love with their chains, and content with their lot,
They delight in the beautiful Isle.
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