The Poetry Corner

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.