Slowly I dawn on the sleepless eye,
Like a dreaming thought of eternity;
But darkness hangs on my misty vest,
Like the shade of care on the sleeper's breast;
A light that is felt — but dimly seen,
Like hope that hangs life and death between;
And the weary watcher will sighing say,
“Lord, I thank thee!‘ twill soon be day;”
The lingering night of pain is past,
Morning breaks in the east at last.
Mortal!— thou mayst see in me
A type of feeble infancy,—
A dim, uncertain, struggling ray,
The promise of a future day!