WATCHMAN, WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
“Say, watchman, what of the night?
Do the dews of the morning fall?
Have the orient skies a border of light,
Like the fringe of a funeral pall? The night is fast waning on high,
And soon shall the darkness flee,
And the moon shall spread o'er the blushing [sky,
And bright shall its glories be.” But, watchman, what of the night,
When sorrow and pain are mine,
And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright,
No longer around me shine? That night of sorrow, thy soul
May surely prepare to meet,
But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness [roll,
And the morning of joy be sweet.” But, watchman, what of that night,
When the arrow of death is sped,
And the grave, which no glimmering star can [light,
Shall be my sleeping bed? That night may be near,—the cheerless tomb
May keep thy body in store,
But eternity's morn will chase the gloom,
And night soon be no more.”