Night is the time to weep,To wet with unseen tearsThose graves of memory where sleepThe joys of other years.
While rose-buds scarcely show'd their hue, But coyly linger'd on the thorn.
Gashed with honourable scars,Low in Glory's lap they lie;Though they fell, they fell like stars,Streaming splendour through the sky.
The Dove, on silver pinions, winged her peaceful way.
Tis human actions paint the chart of time.
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent, a day's march nearer home.