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.