Of all the Arts the human breast can know,

That prompt ambitious hope, with fiery glow;

That reek the heart in anger'd fretful care,

And mock with shades, or all our joys ensnare;

In every path a Casuist is found

To urge adventure o'er some doubtful ground.

But I, O muse, can ne'er contest the Palm,

Nor busy Science e'er my Spirits warm:

But in the shades of night O be my Theme,

And playful Fancy tell the varied Dream

Of Hero's, Poets, or the hoary Sage

That crept through life or graced each happy Age

Of Fete, or Wonder, Fashion or of Fame,

Or graced an Annal with a mighty name.

In this sure bourne the soul shall find a Rest,

And in soft sleep the happy shall be blest.

Oh sleep from which all happiness can spring

And chequer'd Fate, can hang on fancy's wing.

O gentler Death, in whose reposing Arm

Both Prince and Slave, shall find thy soothing charm.

Whence is the source that mocks thy brothers power?—

That hides our cares and all our griefs devour.

Now steals thy balm o'er the sad captives brow,

And happier dreams avert his inmost Woe.

A World wide opens to his soaring Soul

Where life and liberty knows no Controul;

The fettering Steel from off his limbs shall shake

And Dungeon cares his memory forsake.

Like poor Gergona, Misery's sad

Child Whose guileless bosom ever soft and mild,

From Europes milder states, a Captive torn,

And o'er Guergelas sandy desert borne:

To grace the triumph of a brutal band

That knew not human laws nor heavens command.

In slavery he past the joyless hour,

Nor murmur'd ’gainst the horrid Chieftains Power;

Hope told his heart that soon the sable Night

Would come, and with its balmy joys invite:

But long he toil'd, nor long his eyelids close,

His wakeful moments watchful as his woes.

At last with more than common care oppress'd

Found in the hateful Cell a peaceful Rest;

Then playful fancy, with her wonted Art

Awoke those Joys, that dreams alone impart;…