THE misty night broods o'er this peopled place,
Chimneys and trees stand black against the sky,
One goes belated by with echoing pace
And careless whistle, shrilling loud and high.
And ere his steps into the stillness merge
Some labouring giant of our later day
Passes with hollow roar of distant surge
And clouds of steam as white as ocean spray.
In turn the lighted windows, twinkling fair,
Darken, till all these earthborn stars are down;
Stained dusky red by the great city's glare
The waning moon hangs low o'er London Town.
E'en now that moon in her own silver guise
Looks down on some stretched on a stricken plain,
Yet she shows red unto their blood-dimmed eyes
That never shall behold the sun again.
We, weary of the idle watch we keep,
Turn from the window to our sure repose
And pass into the pleasant realms of sleep,
Or snug and drowsy muse upon their woes.
And whether we that sleep or they that wake,—
We that have laboured light and slumber well
Or they that bled and battled for our sake—
Have the best portion scarce seems hard to tell.
Soon shall the sun behold them, where they lie,
Yet his fierce rays may never warm them more;
No further need have they to strive or cry,
They have found rest that laboured long and sore;
While we take up again in street and mart
The burden and the business of the day:
And which of these two is the better part
God only knows, whose face is turned away.