Richard B. Davis (1771–1799)

SWEET are thy slumbers, innocence, reclined

On the fond bosom of maternal love;

Calm as the lake whose waters gently move,

Wafting the spirit of the dying wind.

For thee affection wakes with pleasing care,

Delighted smiles, and breathes the fervent prayer.

Far different is sleep, when labor faints

On his hard couch, when restless avarice quakes;

When from the scene of dread that conscience paints,

Affrighted guilt with sudden horror wakes;

When from the eye of day misfortune shrinks,

And on his bed of thorns despondent sinks.

When night recalls the toilsome day of care,

When hopeless love catches in short repose

Scenes that alike his aching bosom tear,

Visions of shadowy bliss or real woes.

For dreams like these, and nights of anxious pain,

Manhood thy peaceful slumbers must resign,

And all his boasted wisdom sigh in vain

For the calm blessings of a sleep like thine.