Dread Mother of Forgetfulness Who, when Thy reign begins, Wipest away the Soul′s distress, And memory of her sins. The trusty Worm that dieth not The steadfast Fire also, By Thy contrivance are forgot In a completer woe. Thine are the lidless eyes of night That stare upon our tears, Through certain hours which in our sight Exceed a thousand years: Thine is the thickness of the Dark That presses in our pain, As Thine the Dawn that bids us mark Life′s grinning face again. Thine is the weariness outworn No promise shall relieve, That says at eve, "Would God ′twere morn" At morn, "Would God ′twere eve!" And when Thy tender mercies cease And life unvexed is due, Instant upon the false release The Worm and Fire renew. Wherefore we praise Thee in the deep, And on our beds we pray For Thy return that Thou may′st keep The Pains of Hell at bay!