11
The long dark night, with heavy sway,
Hangs frowning o'er their homes of clay;
The twilight dim—the infant moon,
The pale sad stars that break the gloom
Glance coldly on their living tomb.
Ah! what can cheer that lonely spot,
Or bind the sufferer to his lot?
The hand that spread those frigid skies,
And gave the polar star to rise,
The hand that stretch'd that frozen plain,
And shew'd to man his drear domain,
Gave, to enhance the scanty store,
An humble mind that ask'd no more.
And yet a better boon than this
In later times he gave,
A warning voice, a call to bliss,
A hope beyond the grave;
A page whose lustre shone to bless
The lone retreat of wretchedness.
He reads, he weeps, his prayers arise
To Him who hears a sinner's cries.
Sounds soft as music seem to roll,
Strong light is kindled in his soul,
While deep repentance, earnest prayer,
And grateful love are rising there;
And tears stand trembling in his eye
That for his sins, his Lord should die.
