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  This magic flower
  In desperate hour,
A balsam mild shall yield,
  When the sad, sinking heart
  Feels every aid depart,
And every gate of hope for ever sealed;

  Then still its potent charm
  Each agony disarm,
And its all-healing power shall respite give.
  The frantic sufferer, then,
  Convulsed and wild with pain,
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live.

  The dews of slumber, now,
  Rest on her aching brow;
And o'er the languid lids, balsamic fall;
  While fainting nature hears.
  With dissipated fears,
The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call.

  Then will Affection twine
   Around this kindly flower;
  And grateful memory keep,
  How, in the arms of sleep,
   Affliction lost its power.