Midnight
But if my danger haunt thy breast , Yet dry thy tears , and be at rest ; I stand in God 's own armour clad , He loves an honest soldier lad . The clocks ring out , the round is near . My hour of rest will soon be here ; Sleep rock thy brain , and set it free To dream , and only dream of me . Midnight ! and is she dreaming of me ? It always seems to me as if at this mysterious hour the earth gave a little tremble , and the dead who sleep in her bosom turned in their heavy slumber as if to mutter a prayer of _ Domine quousque _ ? That distant bell is borne to me very differently from the ` twelve great shocks of shameless noon . '