'Tis near the morning watch, the dim lamp burns br But scarcely shows how dark the slumbering street; br No sound of life the silent mart returns; br No friends from house to house their neighbors greet; br It is the sleep of death; a deeper sleep br Than e'er before on mortal eyelids fell; br No stars above the gloom their places keep; br No faithful watchmen of the morning tell; br Yet still they slumber on, though rising day br Hath through their windows poured the awakening light; br Or, turning in their sluggard trances, say— br 'There yet are many hours to fill the night;' br They rise not yet; while on the bridegroom goes br 'Till he the day's bright gates forever on them close!br br Jones Verybr br