Night Hours.Where's the young BardWho sang of his loneliness yesternightIn such strains as, when heard,Drew a cloud o'er the rising moon's light?
Day hours.Hark, Echo cries Where?He hath passed from the world as that cloud from the sky;He hath fled to a rest where his once sleepless eyeGlares no more with despair.
Night hours.We have sojourned in every climeHaving name in the annals of time,From the gates of the West to the portals of Morn,And in all to be poor was a crime!From sorrow and scornFor the poverty-born,Then say where this refuge may be?
Day hours.He's dead! -- he is dead!Gone to his death bed,Though not in the shade of the old willow treeHe longed to die under when dying so wildAnd where no one but Misery crieth -- Ah me!For the loveliest child that 'ere died on her knee!Where none, save herself, mourns for Misery's child.
Night hours.Ah! That he should,Though heart-wild with loneliness yesternight!And for why? though he couldNot rejoice in the rising moon's light.
Day hours.He asked but to toilFor the proud and the wealthy, and met with rebuke!He strove to be humble -- but how might he brookTheir contumely the while?
Night hours.But alas! until Error is hurledFrom his throne in the heart of the world;And till Love over Wrong hath the victory sure,And the standard of Right is unfurled,Such scorn aye endureMust the lowly and poor,No matter how worthy they be!
Day hours.Even so. He is dead!Gone to his death bed,Where sleeps he as well as if under that TreeHis dying thought saw by the runnel so wildAnd though no one but Misery crieth -- Ah me!For the loveliest child that e'er died on her knee!Though none, save herself, mourns for Misery's child.
