by John William Burgon
Oft as, at night, I sit and muse alone,
Bound by the spell of some enchanting page
Bard of old Greece, or half inspir'd sage
My kindl’d fancy takes a wayward tone:
And straight, I hear what seems the midnight moan
Of some poor restless ghost;--or, it may be,
The distant roaring of the sleepless sea;
Or unchain’d winds that howl from zone to zone.
Hark! is it not a voice? There seem’d to come
A soft sad wail;--but now, such carol wild
As a young Mother chaunteth to her child
Steals o'er the sense.--Go to--it is the hum
Of a huge city!.....while I thus inquire,
I turn, and find--the kettle near the fire!
Worcester College, 13th Dec., 1844.