George Moses Horton: Verses about Sleep

'Tis sweet to trace the setting sun
Wheel blushing down the west;
When his diurnal race is run,
The traveller stops the gloom to shun,
And lodge his bones to rest.

Far from the eye he sinks apace,
But still throws back his light
From oceans of resplendent grace,
Whence sleeping vesper paints her face,
And bids the sun good night.

To those hesperian fields by night
My thoughts in vision stray,
Like spirits stealing into light,
From gloom upon the wing of flight,
Soaring from time away.

Our eagle, with his pinions furl'd,
Takes his departing peep,
And hails the occidental world,
Swift round whose base the globes are whirl'd,
Whilst weary creatures sleep.

Farewell! if ne'er I see thee more,
Though distant calls my flight impel,
I shall not less thy grace adore,
So friend, forever fare thee well.

Farewell! forever, did I say?
What, never more thy face to see?
Then take the last fond look to-day,
And still to-morrow think of me.

Farewell! alas, the tragic sound
Has many a tender bosom torn;
While desolation spread around,
Deserted friendship left to mourn.

Farewell! awakes the sleeping tear,
The dormant rill from sorrow's eye,
Express'd from one by nature dear,
Whose bosom heaves the latent sigh.

Farewell! is but departure's tale,
When fond association ends,
And fate expands her lofty sail,
To show the distant flight of friends.

Alas! and if we sure must part,
Far separated long to dwell,
I leave thee with a broken heart,
So friend, forever, fare thee well.

I leave thee, but forget thee never,
Words cannot my feeling tell,
'Fare thee well, and if forever,
Still forever fare thee well.'

Sweet on the house top falls the gentle shower,
When jet black darkness crowns the silent hour,
When shrill the owlet pours her hollow tone,
Like some lost child sequester'd and alone,
When Will's bewildering wisp begins to flare,
And Philomela breathes her dulcet air,
'Tis sweet to listen to her nightly tune,
Deprived of star-light or the smiling moon.
When deadly winds sweep round the rural shed,
And tell of strangers lost, without a bed,
Fond sympathy invokes her dol'rous lay,
And pleasure steals in sorrow's gloom away,
Till fost'ring Somnus bids my eyes to close,
And smiling visions open to repose;
Still on my soothing couch I lie at ease,
Still round my chamber flows the whistling breeze,
Still in the chain of sleep I lie confined,
To all the threat'ning ills of life resign'd,
Regardless of the wand'ring elf of night,
While phantoms break on my immortal sight.
The trump of morning bids my slumbers end,
While from a flood of rest I straight ascend,
When on a busy world I cast my eyes,
And think of nightly slumbers with surprise.

Oft do I hear those windows ope
And shut with dread surprise,
And spirits murmur as they grope,
But break not on the eyes.

Still fancy spies the winding sheet,
The phantom and the shroud,
And bids the pulse of horror beat
Throughout my ears aloud.

Some unknown finger thumps the door,
From one of faltering voice,
Till some one seems to walk the floor
With an alarming noise.

The drum of horror holds her sound,
Which will not let me sleep,
When ghastly breezes float around,
And hidden goblins creep.

Methinks I hear some constant groan,
The din of all the dead,
While trembling thus I lie alone,
Upon this restless bed.

At length the blaze of morning broke
On my impatient view,
And truth or fancy told the joke,
And bade the night adieu.

'Twas but the noise of prowling rats,
Which ran with all their speed,
Pursued in haste by hungry cats,
Which on the vermin feed.

Those creatures crumbling off the cheese
Which on the table lay;
Some cats, too quick the rogues to seize,
With rumbling lost their prey.

Thus man is often his own elf,
Who makes the night his ghost,
And shrinks with horror from himself,
Which is to fear the most.

The cat growl'd as she held her prey,
Which shriek'd with all its might,
And drove she balm of sleep away
Throughout the live-long night.

ON ACCOUNT OF THE IMAGINARY FLIGHT OF HER SUITOR.


Oh, heartless dove! mount in the skies,
Spread thy soft wing upon the gale,
Or on thy sacred pinions rise,
Nor brood with silence in the vale.


Breathe on the air thy plaintive note,
Which oft has filled the lonesome grove,
And Iet thy melting ditty float--
The dirge of long lamented love.


Coo softly to the silent ear,
And make the floods of grief to roll;
And cause by love the sleeping tear,
To wake with sorrow from the soul


Is it the loss of pleasures past
Which makes thee droop thy sounding wing?
Does winter's rough, inclement blast
Forbid thy tragic voice to sing?


Is it because the Fragrant breeze
Along the sky forbears to flow--
Nor whispers low amidst the trees,
Whilst all the vallies frown below?


Why should a frown thy soul alarm,
And tear thy pleasures from thy breast?
Or veil the smiles of every charm,
And rob thee of thy peaceful rest.


Perhaps thy sleeping love may wake,
And hear thy penitential tone;
And suffer not thy heart to break,
Nor let a princess grieve alone.


Perhaps his pity may return,
With equal feeling from the heart,
And breast with breast together burn,
Never--no, never more to part.


Never, till death's resistless blow,
Whose call the dearest must obey--
In twain together then may go,
And thus together dwell for aye.


Say to the suitor, Come away,
Nor break the knot which love has tied--
Nor to the world thy trust betray,
And fly forever from thy bride.