WRITTEN IN A SICK CHAMBER.

By Samuel Rogers

There, in that bed so closely curtain'd round,

Worn to a shade, and wan with slow decay,

A father sleeps! Oh hush'd be every sound!

Soft may we breathe the midnight hours away!

He stirs — yet still he sleeps. May heavenly dreams

Long o'er his smooth and settled pillow rise;

Till thro’ the shutter'd pane the morning streams,

And on the hearth the glimmering rush-light dies.