midnight
You think how the dead are lying in their cold shrouds and narrow coffins , through the drear winter of the grave , and can not persuade your fancy that they neither shrink nor shiver , when the snow is drifting over their little hillocks , and the bitter blast howls against the door of the tomb . That gloomy thought will collect a gloomy multitude , and throw its complexion over your wakeful hour . In the depths of every heart there is a tomb and a dungeon , though the lights , the music , and revelry above may cause us to forget their existence , and the buried ones , or prisoners whom they hide . But sometimes , and oftenest at midnight , these dark receptacles are flung wide open . In an hour like this , when the mind has a passive sensibility , but no active strength ; when the imagination is a mirror , imparting vividness to all ideas , without the power of selecting or controlling them ; then pray that your griefs may slumber , and the brotherhood of remorse not break their chain . It is too late ! A funeral train comes gliding by your bed , in which Passion and Feeling assume bodily shape , and things of the mind become dire spectres to the eye .