BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
The moon looks down on a world of snow,
And the midnight lamp is burning low,
And the fading embers mildly glow
In their bed of ashes soft and deep;
All, all is still as the hour of death—
I only hear what the old clock saith,
And the mother and infant's easy breath,
That flows from the holy land of Sleep.
Or the watchman who solemnly wakes the dark,
With a voice like a prophet's when few will hark,
And the answering hounds that bay and bark
To the red cock's clarion horn—
The world goes on—the restless world,
With its freight of sleep through darkness hurled,
Like a mighty ship, when her sails are furled,
On a rapid but noiseless river borne.
Say on old clock—I love you well,
For your silver chime, and the truths you tell—
Your every stroke is but the knell
Of Hope, or Sorrow buried deep;
Say on—but only let me hear
The sound most sweet to my listening ear,
The child and the mother breathing clear
Within the harvest-fields of Sleep.
Thou watchman, on thy lonely round,
I thank thee for that warning sound—
The clarion cock and the baying hound
Not less their dreary vigils keep;
Still hearkening, I will love you all,
While in each silent interval
I can hear those dear breasts rise and fall
Upon the airy tide of Sleep.
Old world, on Time's benighted stream
Sweep down till the stars of morning beam
From orient shores—nor break the dream
That calms my love to pleasures deep;
Roll on and give my Bud and Rose
The fullness of thy best repose,
The blessedness which only flows
Along the silent realms of Sleep.
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