Classic Poem

Waking one morn, in sickness, I was told
By those who o'er my sleep their watch had kept,
That they had mark'd a crowd of busy tears
Trickling from my clos'd eyes, the while I slept.

But I, of any sorrow unaware,
Had pass'd that night in freedom from all pain,
Nor in my dreams the vision of a care
Had visited the mansions of my brain.

Ah, was it then that nature of herself
Pour'd for her guilt th' involuntary tear?
Smit inwardly like that hard rock of old
By rod of secret Angel standing near?

Or was it thou, my soul, in thine own depth
Stirr'd with unfathom'd thoughts too sad to last,
Anticipating death and judgment dread,
Or pining o'er th' irrevocable past?

Thou knowest, Lord, who dost my misery see;
And Thou alone: — this only will I say,
Thrice grateful I to weep, whene'er Thou wilt,
Or choose Thou me the night, or choose the day.