 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
345
MIDNIGHT.
WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE NEAR A LIGHT-HOUSE.
It is the witching hour. The Night
Sits on her cold, meridian height.
And the starry troops are seen
Camping round their ancient queen.
Till upon the Eastern zone
Ascends a rival to her throne.
And the pearly, lunar horn
Shines, but a more silent morn.
Sits on her cold, meridian height.
And the starry troops are seen
Camping round their ancient queen.
Till upon the Eastern zone
Ascends a rival to her throne.
And the pearly, lunar horn
Shines, but a more silent morn.
Now the hamlet sounds are o'er
Peasant laugh and closing door,
And the lazy-ebbing tide
Glistening leaves the seabeach wide.
Yet ever and anon the ear
Listens, with no unpleased fear,
To the dreamy echoes deep
Sighed from the earth's mysterious sleep
The heavings of the elm and oak
As if a spirit in them spoke;
Drowsy sheep-bells, and the chime
Where the distant turrets climb;
Or the hum of waggoner,
Singing, his slow team to cheer;
Mingled with the watch-dog's bark,
Warning rovers of the dark;
Or the bell of midnight toll'd
Dreary o'er the churchyard mould.
Peasant laugh and closing door,
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Glistening leaves the seabeach wide.
Yet ever and anon the ear
Listens, with no unpleased fear,
To the dreamy echoes deep
Sighed from the earth's mysterious sleep
The heavings of the elm and oak
As if a spirit in them spoke;
Drowsy sheep-bells, and the chime
Where the distant turrets climb;
Or the hum of waggoner,
Singing, his slow team to cheer;
Mingled with the watch-dog's bark,
Warning rovers of the dark;
Or the bell of midnight toll'd
Dreary o'er the churchyard mould.
But above my casement, wound
With every flower that's sweetest found
On heathy hill or blossom'd mead,
By the virgin's May-morn tread;
I see one sleepless, earthly star
Shoot its wild splendours free and far,
Defying night, and cloud, and shower,
The meteor of yon seashore tower.
With every flower that's sweetest found
On heathy hill or blossom'd mead,
By the virgin's May-morn tread;
347
Shoot its wild splendours free and far,
Defying night, and cloud, and shower,
The meteor of yon seashore tower.
Now, from ocean comes the gale,
Mix'd with what might seem a wail;
Where some gallant company
Look their last upon the sky.
Folding in its fleecy cloud
The turret, like an idol proud
Glaring in his Indian cave
Over prostrate prince and slave.
Now, afar the mist is blown,
And the ruddy blaze is thrown
Where along the slumbering tide
The anchor'd ships like dolphins ride;
Touching into woofs of light
Sail and shroud, and pennant slight;
Hanging on the village spire
Tissues sweet of azure fire,
And with fairy colour'd gleam
Gilding the sweet-tinkling stream,
That beneath the hawthorn-brake
Glitters, like a summer snake,
To where my lowly cottage roof
Hides, from the worldly din aloof,
Nestling in the fragrant twine
Of bushy rose and jessamine.
Mix'd with what might seem a wail;
Where some gallant company
Look their last upon the sky.
Folding in its fleecy cloud
The turret, like an idol proud
Glaring in his Indian cave
Over prostrate prince and slave.
Now, afar the mist is blown,
And the ruddy blaze is thrown
Where along the slumbering tide
The anchor'd ships like dolphins ride;
Touching into woofs of light
Sail and shroud, and pennant slight;
Hanging on the village spire
Tissues sweet of azure fire,
348
Gilding the sweet-tinkling stream,
That beneath the hawthorn-brake
Glitters, like a summer snake,
To where my lowly cottage roof
Hides, from the worldly din aloof,
Nestling in the fragrant twine
Of bushy rose and jessamine.
Now around me, and beneath,
All is slumber, still as death;
In my hand some pale, proud page
Of mankind's high heroic age,
By divinest Virgil sung,
On his Mantuan lilies flung;
Or the lovelorn poet,—he
Who pined by the Propontis' sea;
Or the strain that Sappho wept,
Ere she to her death-bed swept.
Or that Pindar's eagle wing
Dash'd, immortal from the string.
All is slumber, still as death;
In my hand some pale, proud page
Of mankind's high heroic age,
By divinest Virgil sung,
On his Mantuan lilies flung;
Or the lovelorn poet,—he
Who pined by the Propontis' sea;
Or the strain that Sappho wept,
Ere she to her death-bed swept.
Or that Pindar's eagle wing
Dash'd, immortal from the string.
349
Then, in fancy's wayward fit,
I turn to Chaucer's mystic wit;
And in his old, enchanted glass,
See pilgrim, nun, and warrior pass;
Rosy smiles beneath the hood,
Steel-clad bosoms love-subdued,
Tonsured crowns, with roving eye,
All the old-world pageantry!
I turn to Chaucer's mystic wit;
And in his old, enchanted glass,
See pilgrim, nun, and warrior pass;
Rosy smiles beneath the hood,
Steel-clad bosoms love-subdued,
Tonsured crowns, with roving eye,
All the old-world pageantry!
Or the blacken'd tome unhasp,
Shrined in brazen fold and clasp,
Where in the more than midnight veil
Tells old Alchemy her tale,
Secrets of a darker sphere,
Making the flesh shrink to hear!
How the mighty sigil tamed
The Spirit, while he raved and flamed;
Round the guarded circle wan
Rushing still with wilder ban,
Shaking from his dragon wings
Poisons, and all monstrous things;
Till within the crucible
Star-bright rose the master-spell,
And symphonies of earth and air
Told the “Gem of gems” was there!
Shrined in brazen fold and clasp,
Where in the more than midnight veil
Tells old Alchemy her tale,
Secrets of a darker sphere,
Making the flesh shrink to hear!
How the mighty sigil tamed
The Spirit, while he raved and flamed;
Round the guarded circle wan
Rushing still with wilder ban,
Shaking from his dragon wings
Poisons, and all monstrous things;
350
Star-bright rose the master-spell,
And symphonies of earth and air
Told the “Gem of gems” was there!
Or, with curious vision mazed,
I trace the monkish scroll, emblazed
With gorgeous hues, and emblems high,
Legends of church and chivalry;
Kneeling saints, and prelates old,
Monarchs, silk and ermine stol'd,
Cup and crosier, helm and targe,
Cluster'd on the dazzling marge!
While that dazzling marge within
Slumber blindness, pride, and sin.
I trace the monkish scroll, emblazed
With gorgeous hues, and emblems high,
Legends of church and chivalry;
Kneeling saints, and prelates old,
Monarchs, silk and ermine stol'd,
Cup and crosier, helm and targe,
Cluster'd on the dazzling marge!
While that dazzling marge within
Slumber blindness, pride, and sin.
Thus bewitch'd the moments sweep,
Till the honey-pinion'd sleep,
With his pleasant murmuring,
Seems in my drowzed ear to ring;
And round my old, romantic nook
I cast a superstitious look,
As the woodbine's breezy train
Waves across my rustic pane,
And, to fancy's clouded gaze,
Bluer winks the taper's blaze:
Nurse-taught things, that stamp the brain,
Though sullen reason call them vain!
Then, shook off my ghostly fear,
I watch the beacon's flaming sphere;
Or, with awed, thought-wandering eye,
Gaze on the blue Infinity;
Where, before he treads the tomb,
Man beholds the world to come.
Till the honey-pinion'd sleep,
With his pleasant murmuring,
Seems in my drowzed ear to ring;
And round my old, romantic nook
I cast a superstitious look,
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Waves across my rustic pane,
And, to fancy's clouded gaze,
Bluer winks the taper's blaze:
Nurse-taught things, that stamp the brain,
Though sullen reason call them vain!
Then, shook off my ghostly fear,
I watch the beacon's flaming sphere;
Or, with awed, thought-wandering eye,
Gaze on the blue Infinity;
Where, before he treads the tomb,
Man beholds the world to come.
Thus charm'd dizziness, unchid,
Alights upon my drooping lid;
And, with due accustom'd prayer,
Is closed the daily count of care;
And the heart is lapp'd in dreams,
Fann'd by fresh, flower-breathing steams
Through the open casement sent;
Till Aurora's Eastern tent
Flames with chequer'd rose and gold,
And the radiant clouds are roll'd
Before the solar chariot-yoke,
Like a Persian army broke:
And before his fiery car
Fades and flies the twilight star.
Alights upon my drooping lid;
And, with due accustom'd prayer,
Is closed the daily count of care;
And the heart is lapp'd in dreams,
Fann'd by fresh, flower-breathing steams
Through the open casement sent;
Till Aurora's Eastern tent
352
And the radiant clouds are roll'd
Before the solar chariot-yoke,
Like a Persian army broke:
And before his fiery car
Fades and flies the twilight star.
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |