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191
MIDNIGHT.
“Tell me moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim of Heaven's pathless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now!”
Shelley.
Pilgrim of Heaven's pathless way,
In what depth of night or day
Seekest thou repose now!”
Shelley.
'Tis dead of night—yet downy sleep
Sinks not upon my brow;
There is a spell more calmly deep,
That binds my spirit now:
For 'tis the hour
When Nature musing on her power,
Seems hushed in awe,
As if she scarcely dared her breath restrained to draw.
Sinks not upon my brow;
There is a spell more calmly deep,
That binds my spirit now:
For 'tis the hour
When Nature musing on her power,
Seems hushed in awe,
As if she scarcely dared her breath restrained to draw.
In every lifeless object round
There seems a pulse—a soul;
Yet each is throbless, breathless bound,
In mystic, mute control;
Hist! with a throng
Of whisperings, like the Sea-shell's song,
The air is fraught,—
Continuous, faint, and low—the very voice of Thought!
There seems a pulse—a soul;
Yet each is throbless, breathless bound,
In mystic, mute control;
Hist! with a throng
Of whisperings, like the Sea-shell's song,
The air is fraught,—
Continuous, faint, and low—the very voice of Thought!
192
The frequent sighs of dripping caves
Are hollow, faint, and bland;
And softly sink the crystal waves
In smooth absorbing sand;
More soft than they,
This rippling Silence sings alway—
More soft, more faint,
This simmering Silence weaves its dimly-chiming plaint.
Are hollow, faint, and bland;
And softly sink the crystal waves
In smooth absorbing sand;
More soft than they,
This rippling Silence sings alway—
More soft, more faint,
This simmering Silence weaves its dimly-chiming plaint.
The moonbeams rest upon the white
And shadowed coverlet;
The dusky flakes of bluish light
Are crossed, like work of net,
Depicting plain
Each diamonded casement-pane;—
In cautious mood
They seem to peer around, ere further they intrude.
And shadowed coverlet;
The dusky flakes of bluish light
Are crossed, like work of net,
Depicting plain
Each diamonded casement-pane;—
In cautious mood
They seem to peer around, ere further they intrude.
And through the glistening mistry glass,
The Moon, the curious elf,
Its barrier half-inclined to pass,
Is peeping in herself!
She seems to wait
Till those fair beams report the state
Of all within,
And tell when unperceived herself may entrance win.
The Moon, the curious elf,
Its barrier half-inclined to pass,
Is peeping in herself!
She seems to wait
Till those fair beams report the state
Of all within,
And tell when unperceived herself may entrance win.
193
And though detected now, lest more
Suspicion she excite,
She keeps the look she had before,
Unchanging—stirless quite!
So when the rest
Of watchful Spider you molest,
In shrunken shape
He boldly mimics death your notice to escape.
Suspicion she excite,
She keeps the look she had before,
Unchanging—stirless quite!
So when the rest
Of watchful Spider you molest,
In shrunken shape
He boldly mimics death your notice to escape.
What is this strange bright Thing, which draws
So near at dead of night?
Its growing presence almost awes
With meekest, mutest might!
It fills my room—
In living Thought absorbs the gloom—
Its silence rife
With Spirit seems,—intense with conscious, creeping Life!
So near at dead of night?
Its growing presence almost awes
With meekest, mutest might!
It fills my room—
In living Thought absorbs the gloom—
Its silence rife
With Spirit seems,—intense with conscious, creeping Life!
Why does its lonely softness flow
So sadly on the heart,
And whence the bright, the tearful woe
It does to all impart?
That look so worn—
Whence is it, Wanderer most forlorn?
Or why dost keep
Weak watch, and go thy rounds, when all the strong ones sleep?
So sadly on the heart,
And whence the bright, the tearful woe
It does to all impart?
That look so worn—
Whence is it, Wanderer most forlorn?
Or why dost keep
Weak watch, and go thy rounds, when all the strong ones sleep?
194
Would'st tell of slight unkind—of dire
Neglect, that thou dost break
My chamber's gloom?—will none admire?
Oh is not love awake?
Then I full fain
Will bless thee in a simple strain;
And soothly say
Thy light is sweeter far than gaudy glare of Day!
Neglect, that thou dost break
My chamber's gloom?—will none admire?
Oh is not love awake?
Then I full fain
Will bless thee in a simple strain;
And soothly say
Thy light is sweeter far than gaudy glare of Day!
1830, & 1832.
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