He seeks his lonely bed,
And there he utters, in a dream,
Those words—“When I am dead!” * * *
Awoke—his ever-studious mind
Impels his feathery pen,
And draws, perchance, his last design
Of the ethereal main.
Ah! something stirs him to a smile—
Like lightning skips his quill;
Then, for some reason, waits awhile,