Page:Poems Cook.djvu/284

My lids grew heavy, my glance was dim,
As I yawn'd in the midst of a cradle hymn—
When the watchman's echo lull'd me quite,
With "Past ten o'clock, and a starlight night!"

Well I remember the hideous dream,
When I struggled in terror, and strove to scream,
As I took a wild leap o'er the precipice steep,
And convulsively flung off the incubus sleep.
How I loved to behold the moonshine cold
Illume each well-known curtain fold;
And how I was soothed by the watchman's warning,
Of "Past three o'clock, and a moonlight morning!"

Oh, there was music in this "old cry,"
Whose deep, rough tones will never die;
No rare serenade will put to flight
The chant that proclaim'd a "stormy night."

The "watchmen of the city" are gone,
The church-bell speaketh, but speaketh alone;
We hear no voice at the wintry dawning,
With "Past five o'clock, and a cloudy morning!"
Ah, well-a-day! it hath pass'd away,
 But I sadly miss the cry
That told in the night when the stars were bright,
 Or the rain-cloud veil'd the sky.
Watchmen, watchmen, ye are among
The bygone things that will haunt me long.

 

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"Three bunches a penny, primroses!"
 Oh, dear is the greeting of Spring;
When she offers her dew-spangled posies,
 The fairest Creation can bring.

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