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Night is the time to weep;
To wet with unseen tears
The joys of other years;
Night is the time to watch;
On ocean's dark expanse, To hail the pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the home-sick mind All we have loved, and left behind.
Night is the time for care;
Brooding on hours mispent, To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent; Like Brutus midst his slumbering host, Startled by Caesar's stalwart ghost.
Night is the time to muse;
Then from the eye the soul Takes flight, and with expanding views
Beyond the starry pole,
Descries athwart the abyss of night,
Night is the time to pray;
Our Saviour oft withdrew
So will his followers do;
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,
From sin and suffering cease:
I. 0 why should the spirit of mortal be proud? Like a fast flitting meteor, a fast flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave—
in. The child that a mother attended and loved, The mother that infant's affection that proved, The husband that mother and infant that blest, Each—all are away to their dwelling of rest. i
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,
So the multitude goes—like the flower and the weed
For we are the same things that our fathers have been, We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, , We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, And we run the same course that our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think, From the death we are shrinking from, they too would
shrink; To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling— But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.
They loved—but their story we cannot unfold;
They died—ay they died! and we things that are now,
Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,