Shades of night have gathered round,
'Tis the hour of gloom profound;
'Tis the hour when many sleep,
'Tis the hour when many weep,
Over pleasures buried deep.

Faces smiling through the day,
Lips that told a spirit gay,
Eyes that beamed as with delight,
Now concealed from human sight,
Put aside the mask to-night.

Tossing on the couch of pain,
Seeking rest but all in vain,
With the dark and dreary tomb
Oft appearing through the gloom,
Weary sufferers wait their doom!

Bright and golden dreams have some:
On their airy wings they come,
Giving fancy leave to soar
To the happy scenes of yore,—
Or to some untraveled shore.

By the hearth he holds so dear,
Softly ringing in his ear
Gentle voices, faces bright
Bursting on his gladdened sight,—
Sits the wanderer to-night.

Clasping hands in holy trust
Long since mouldered into dust,—
Gazing into death-sealed eyes,
With a look of sweet surprise,
Every tear the mourner dries.

From some rugged mountain high
Making journeys through the sky,
Or in amaranthine bowers
Talking with the birds and flowers,
Poets spend the midnight hours.

Phantoms that by day elude,
Flying ever when pursued,—
Like the desert mirage bright,
Filled with joy and with delight
Dreamers fondly clasp to-night.

Oh, that morning's early beam
Should dissolve the blissful dream!
Oh, that love and hope should fly
Like the mist in yonder sky,
When the burning sun is high!

There's a morning yet to break,
When the sleepers shall awake
From the couch and from the grave,
From the mountain and the cave,
From beneath the ocean wave.

Then the dream of life is o'er,
Then they wake to sleep no more;
Then all earthly hopes shall fly
Like the mist in yonder sky,—
And that morning draweth nigh!