THOU pale and sickly lamp, Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp, Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour, And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er This precious volume of forgotten lore My eyes devour. Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while Soon will the morning's ruddy smile Peep through the casement, like a well-known guest, And give thee needful rest. Even now the grey owl seeks his nest; And in the farm-yards, lusty cocks begin To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din, Cheer on the lagging morn. Right soon the careful churle will go To view his ripening corn; And up, and up, in a merry row, A thousand many-voiced birds will spring, And in one general chorus sing Their matins to the skies. Then live some little while, poor sickening light, And glad my aching eyes; Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright Has seen thy exequies. Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one, Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart, Doth shape his leave. I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone. Pity it is that in this mood we part. |