PICTURE XVIII.

How sweet is sleep, when gain'd by length of toil!

No dreams disturb the slumbers of the dead —

To snatch existence from this scanty soil,

Were these the hopes deceitful fancy bred;

And were her painted pageants nothing more

Than this life's phantoms by delusion led?

The winds blow high: one other world remains;

Once more without a guide I find the way;

In the dark tomb to slumber with my chains —

Prais'd by no poet on my funeral day,

Nor even allow'd one dearly purchas'd claim —

My new found world not honour'd with my name.

Yet, in this joyless gloom while I repose,

Some comfort will attend my pensive shade,

When memory paints, and golden fancy shows

My toils rewarded, and my woes repaid;

When empires rise where lonely forests grew,

Where Freedom shall her generous plans pursue.

To shadowy forms, and ghosts and sleepy things,

Columbus, now with dauntless heart repair;

You liv'd to find new worlds for thankless kings,

Write this upon my tomb — yes — tell it there —

Tell of those chains that sullied all my glory —

Not mine, but their's — ah, tell the shameful story.