At night's still hour, when guiltless bosoms know,
The joys that blissful dreams bestow;
O! hither call that solemn tribe
Of days, of years, now long o'erpast;
Whose voice not Eastern wealth can bribe,
Whilst shrinks the soul through fear aghast,
With accent deep as midnight knell
Each impious deed let Mem'ry tell;
And trembling guilt appall'd shall hear,
The twofold voice of Conscience and of Fear.