Wathen Marks Wilks Call (1817–1890)

WAKEFUL I lay all night and thought of God,

Of heaven, and of the crowns pale martyrs gain,

Of souls in high and purgatorial pain,

And the red path which murder’d seers have trod;

I heard the trumpets which the angels blow

I saw the cleaving sword, the measuring rod,

I watch’d the stream of sound continuous flow

Past the gold towers where seraphs make abode.

But now I let the aching splendour go,

I dare not call the crownèd angels peers

Henceforth. I am content to dwell below

Mid common joys, with humble smiles and tears

Delighted in the sun and breeze to grow,

A child of human hopes and human fears.