And there lay the merchant all pillowed in down,
And building bright hopes for the morrow,
Nor dreamed he that Fate was then waving a wand
That would bring to him fear and sorrow;
Yet the Printer was there in his shadowy room,
And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom!
The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound
The ties that death only can sever;
And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile,
For she thought they were parted for ever!
But the Printer was clicking the types that would tell
On the morrow the truth of that midnight spell!
And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow
And restless, the pillow was pressing,
For he felt through the shadowy mist of his dream
His loftiest hopes now possessing;
Yet the Printer worked on, mid silence and gloom,
And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb.
And slowly that workman went gathering up
His budget of grief and of gladness;
A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low,
For the happy, a full cup of sadness;
Strange stories of wonder, to enchant the ear,
And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear.
Full strange are the tales which that dark host shall bear
To palace and cot on the morrow;
Oh welcome, thrice welcome, to many a heart!
To many a bearer of sorrow;
It shall go like the wild and wandering air,
For life and its changes are impressed there.
Modus.
Boston, August, 1843.