SONGS OF THE HOURS.

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!