Now o'er the face of nature, night has thrown
Her sable mantle. Cynthia's silver beam
Shews not the distant bay, the vessel's course,
On which I love to ponder, from this height:
Pale empress, pleasing ever, she illumes
Some clime far distant. There, on giddy mast,
How many a seaman views that cheering orb;
Then thinks of parents, kindred, wife, and friends.
Perchance, hope whispers how a faithful fair
May sighing, trembling, view the bright expanse;
While oft she prays for his long--wish'd return.
He toils submissive, scorning to complain;
And laughs at danger. Think, ah! think ye proud,
From midnight revels freed, what he endures,
To store your groaning boards with pois'nous sweets,
That make you oft the hardy peasant's scoff.
Ne'er let ingratitude to him give pain,
Who, shame on man, oft torn from all he loves,
Braves sultry climes, hidden rocks, and pow'rful foes,
Proud of his country. Silence reigns around,
Save the rain patt'ring on the casement rude,
Driv'n by the breeze. It seems the voice of Heaven,
And still should make us mindful of the cause.

Oft at this hour, methinks 'tis sweet to muse,
On perils we've encounter'd, and escap'd;
Of sicknesses, too soon, alas! forgot:
Then dive into futurity's dark womb,
And lead the mind to death's sure, near approach.
To me, when wearied with day's studious toil,
It seems betimes life's luxury supreme,
Self--exil'd from the land which gave me birth,
In nook retir'd, far from the hum of man,
To think of youthful friends, for ever lost;
Of parents, relatives, sunk to the dust:
To trace with sages o'er my taper dim,
The various changes on life's busy stage,
Of states and mortals. Nor mispent the time,
Giv'n to the Muse; tho' woo'd too oft in vain.
Rear'd on the lap of humblest poverty,
By those who vainly sought coy fortune's smile,
The rays of learning ne'er illum'd my mind:
Yet, though debarr'd the joys of wealth and science,
While virtue dictates for another's weal,
The song that soothes a brother on his way,
My pipe shall not hang idly 'gainst the wall;
Tho' feeble be its tone. The simple rhyme,
The moral thought, of one unknown to fame,
An ear may please, and turn a mind from vice.

Not reft of feeling--now the clock hath told
The noon of night--O! I could weep for those,
The houseless wand'rers 'mid the savage blast,
Poor wretched outcasts of society!
Torn by our faithless sex from virtue's seat;
Reflecting never--making vice a trade.
--Ah! nature shudders at the dark--wrought scene!

He sleeps not, now, the helpless wretch, immur'd
Within yon gloomy prison's dark dank cell,
Th' insolvent debtor, from his friends exil'd.
Health smiles no longer on him; and alas!
The thoughts of happy years, long since flown by,
Prompt daily sighs, and break the night's repose.
His partner, offspring, driven to penury,
Woe--worn, and sickly, begging oft in vain,
For ever haunt him on his scanty straw.--
But 'tis the will of proud relentless man,
Whose heart, ''flint to the core,'' ne'er learn'd to feel;
And law's loud voice must own such deeds are just.
Bear light thy sorrows, heartless son of want;
Let christian fortitude soothe each distress;
Thy country boasts the wealthy and the good,
Who feel indignant at a brother's woes;
And still may such enjoy the suff'rer's praise.
--Still be this truth engraven on each mind;
Life's but a prison! Princes breathe enchain'd--
Death to the virtuous only, freedom gives!

How many, reckless of this solemn hour,
In yon proud town of commerce, idly waste
The time in riot, and intemp'rate joys!
The midnight ball, the splendid shew of pride,
The costly viands, or the mazy dance,
To them alone have charms. Thrice happier he,
The peaceful peasant, who from hardy toil,
Asks but the frugal meal nature requires.
--Man's real wants are few. From luxury,
Spring countless cares, that poison life's few years!

The cottage children of this straw--roof'd shed,
In sleep's soft arms, dream o'er their little sports.
Blest cherubs!--Ah! what bitter storms may blight
Such op'ning buds, exceeds proud mortals' ken.
Rest on. Peace to your slumbers, happy boys!
Rest on. A few short years may see you drawn
Into the wily snares of wicked men.
Or, ere another moon lights these brown hills,
Perhaps you're doom'd to hasten to the grave;
And sorrow--sunk, your parents leave in pain.
--God's will be done!--'Tis weakness to repine!

How different those stretch'd on the bed of death,
Who count each lazy minute as it flies;
Praying for morn's approach, and mourning still.
Hope tells, another day may bring them ease;
But hope too oft deceives the giddy brain.
Be patient, sons of sickness; mindful still
That virtuous deeds, though scorn'd by Mammon's train,
Will meet a sure reward. Remember, too,
The Ruler of the winds can only grant
A healing balm to sorrow or disease.

The thousand cares which agitate frail man,
During the glare of day, are hush'd to rest.
Emotions dire of envy, pangs of pride,
Tortures of jealousy, and fears of want;
Doubts, sorrows, pains, fancied perplexities,
Loves ill--requited, friendships unreturn'd,
A while are all forgotten. On his couch,
Encanopied with velvet, the proud Prince,
Who conquers kingdoms, millions keeps in awe,
And revels on the lap of luxury,
Tastes not more sweets than doth the wretch low born,
Who nestles in his straw. Then since 'tis thus,
That not ev'n honors, pow'r, or pride of birth,
Yea, all the wealth Golconda's mountains yield,
Can smooth the brow of care; why will frail man
Repining, fret his few short years away?
Let me, whate'er the ills I'm doom'd to bear,
Spite of the proud man's scorn, the wise one's sneer,
Be thankful, ever, to the King of kings!