When wearisome task is finished
And flesh with fatigue is oppressed,
When muscles are tired and languid
And sinews are sorely distressed,
No balm can renew their vigor
Like that boon from heaven called rest.

We know not its composition,
Nor can we expound all its laws,
We grant the effect is pleasant
Tho' we cannot explain the cause;
We therefore accept the blessing
And bid curiosity pause.

Foremost in its rank of agents
Is a heavenly maid called Sleep,
Who stands in unbroken silence,
And ever her watch will keep
O'er mortals whose labors and trials
Seem heavy, oppressive, and deep.

Sometimes when sorrows are deepest
This maiden refuses relief;
She's no balm for the broken-hearted,
No cure for a head bowed with grief,
No soothing touch for the anguish
That robs like a heartless thief.

She flies from deep woe and sorrow
And recedes from the blinding tear;
Yet hastes to fatigue and trials
And offers to them smiles of cheer
Such as turn to joy and gladness,
Murky doubt and foreboding fear.

When death shall release the spirit
From its prison-house of vile clay,
It will speed to an elysian
Of a cloudless, unending day,
Where with others of its kindred,
It will find a rest for aye.

A pleasant pastime is my pen
Well filled with murky ink,
When in my solitary den
I sit for hours to think,
And trace my thoughts in liquid flow
Upon some virgin page,
That in the future it may show
What thoughts my mind engage.