O wretched heart! in sadness I cried,
Where is thy trust in the Crucified?
And in wrestling prayer did I labor long
That the Mighty One would make me strong.
That prayer was more than a useless breath:
It brought to my soul God's saving health.
The hours went by on their drowsy flight,
And came the middle watch of the night;
In part unmanned in spite of my care,
I beheld my guest in the taper's glare,
A wall of darkness around him thick,
As onward he came to a pendulum-tick.
Then quickly I opened wide the door,
And bade him pass my threshold o'er,
And linger awhile away from the cold,
And repeat some story or ballad old,--
His weary limbs to strengthen with rest,
For his course to the ever-receding West.
Through the vacant door in wonder I glanced,
And stood--was it long?--as one entranced.
Silence so awful did fill the room,
That the tick of the clock was a cannon's boom.
And my heart it sank to its lowest retreat,
And in whelming awe did muffle its beat.
For now I beheld, as never before;
And heard to forget--ah, nevermore!
For with outstretched hand, with scythe and glass,
With naught of a pause did the traveler pass.
And with upturned face he the silence broke,
And thus, as he went, he measuredly spoke:
My journey is long, but my limbs are strong;
And I stay not for rest, for story, or song.
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