 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
NIGHT.
No longer the beautiful day
Is cheerful, and pleasant and bright;
The shadows of evening grey
Are closed in the darkness of night.
The din of employment is o'er,
Not a sound, not a whisper is heard;
The waggon-bell tinkles no more,
And hushed is the song of the bird.
Is cheerful, and pleasant and bright;
The shadows of evening grey
Are closed in the darkness of night.
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Not a sound, not a whisper is heard;
The waggon-bell tinkles no more,
And hushed is the song of the bird.
The landscape, once blooming and fair,
With every gay colour inlaid;
The landscape, indeed, is still there,
But all its fair colours are shade.
The sun sinking under the hill,
Is gone other mornings to make;
The bustle of business is still;
Only sorrow and sin are awake!
With every gay colour inlaid;
The landscape, indeed, is still there,
But all its fair colours are shade.
The sun sinking under the hill,
Is gone other mornings to make;
The bustle of business is still;
Only sorrow and sin are awake!
The busy hand, busy no more,
Is sunk from its labours to rest;
Closed tight is each window and door,
Where once the gay passengers pressed.
The houses of frolic and fun
Are empty, and desolate all;
The din of the coaches is done,
And the weary horse rests in his stall:
Is sunk from its labours to rest;
Closed tight is each window and door,
Where once the gay passengers pressed.
The houses of frolic and fun
Are empty, and desolate all;
The din of the coaches is done,
And the weary horse rests in his stall:
Just such is the season of death,
Which comes upon each of us fast!
The bosom can't flutter with breath,
When life's little day-time is past.
The blood freezes cold in its vein,
The heart sinks for ever to rest;
Not a fancy flits over the brain,
Nor a sigh finds its way from the breast.
Which comes upon each of us fast!
The bosom can't flutter with breath,
When life's little day-time is past.
20
The heart sinks for ever to rest;
Not a fancy flits over the brain,
Nor a sigh finds its way from the breast.
The tongue stiff and silent is grown,
The pale lips move never again:
The smile and the dimple are flown,
And the voice both of pleasure and pain
Clay-cold the once feverish head,
The eye's pleasant flashing has ceased;
And narrow and dark is the bed
Where comes the grave-worm to his feast!
The pale lips move never again:
The smile and the dimple are flown,
And the voice both of pleasure and pain
Clay-cold the once feverish head,
The eye's pleasant flashing has ceased;
And narrow and dark is the bed
Where comes the grave-worm to his feast!
But as, from the silence and gloom,
Another bright morning shall rise,
So, bursting awake from the tomb,
We shall mount far away to the skies.
And those who with meekness and prayer,
In the paths of religion have trod,
Shall worship all glorious there,
Among the archangels of God.
Another bright morning shall rise,
So, bursting awake from the tomb,
We shall mount far away to the skies.
And those who with meekness and prayer,
In the paths of religion have trod,
Shall worship all glorious there,
Among the archangels of God.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |