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.