Again—again thy voice, reminding me that I am wasting the “midnight oil.” In my lonely fantasy, I can scarce believe that other mortals have caught the sound, or that it vibrates elsewhere than in my secret soul. But to many hast thou spoken. Anxious men have heard thee on their sleepless pillows, and bethought themselves anew of to-morrow’s care. In a brief interval of wakefulness, the sons of toil have heard thee, and say, “Is so much of our quiet slumber spent?—is the morning so near at hand?” Crime has heard thee, and mutters, “Now is the very hour!” Despair answers thee, “Thus much of this weary life is gone!” The young mother, on her bed of pain and ecstasy, has counted thy echoing strokes, and dates from them her first-born’s share of life and immortality. The bridegroom and the bride have listened, and feel that their night of rapture flits like a dream away. Thine accents have fallen faintly on the ear of the dying man, and warned him that, ere thou speakest again, his spirit shall have passed whither no voice of time can ever reach. Alas for the departing traveller, if thy voice—the voice of fleeting time—have taught him no lessons for Eternity!