The breeze was silent on the glassy deep,
And half the world was sinking into sleep:
Save where the shepherd led his fleecy train
To crop the verdure of the moon-light plain;
Save where the warder on the turret's height
Trimm'd his weak lamp, and watch'd the bell of night,
And the lone captive, in the dungeon's gloom,
With beating pulse look'd forward to his doom.

Still Harfagar refused the gift of rest;
His country's cares lay brooding in his breast:
And many a gloomy pang his heart assail'd,
But fortitude at each assault prevail'd.
So stands in British woods a broad-bough'd oak,
That braved three centuries every stormy stroke;
While howling winds the scatter'd forest rend,
He rears his aged trunk, and scorns to bend;
So stood, serenely stood the godlike man,
And thus, deep musing, inwardly began.

"Now silent night, the parent of repose,
O'er half the earth her shadowy pinion throws.
Hail, sleep, restorer of the tortured mind,
Balm of the soul, and friend to human kind!
The toils and tumults of our earthly scene
Subside, and melt into thy sway serene.
Life's sweetest cup, with purest blessings fraught,
Were, without thee, a vapid joyless thought!
My fellow captives all thy pleasures taste;
Their fears, their sorrows, all in sleep are past; }