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THE NIGHTINGALE.
“Even yet thou art to me,
No bird—but an invisible thing,
A voice—a mystery!”
Wordsworth.—To the Cuckoo.
No bird—but an invisible thing,
A voice—a mystery!”
Wordsworth.—To the Cuckoo.
I
It is night—silent night; restless winds have gone away—And the trees may in quiet sleep;
And the stars, that like fawns had been scared by the stranger Day,
Now timidly nearer creep;
Your glance threads its way through their crowds, shining high and low,
As it might through a motionless swarm
Of insects that play in the summer even's glow,
As they hang in the twilight warm.
II
As you look on the star-dropt dome, you may feel the soft dewsStealing downward like flakes of cool air;
And flowers unseen their faint fresh odours diffuse,
Through the thin darkness everywhere!
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Like dark clouds they thoughtfully stoop—
Their soft dusky foliage mixed with the mellow gray sky—
A spirit-like shadowy group!
III
How meekly in the pale gleaming sky are those starry eyes spread,O'er the corpse-like Earth, wrapt in gloom!
Like the innocent wax-lights which burn o'er the regal Dead,
Laid in state in a palace-room!
And brightly that still Sky is watching the dark Earth below,
As a sweet bright-eyed Child surveys
Its Mother's black robes, and her shrouded face of woe,
With a silent and wondering gaze.
IV
Did it startle you, Silence—or charm you to joy?— that strain?It broke out with strange sweet power,
And presently ceased—and the darkness and hush again
Have settled o'er meadow and bower!
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Is its changeful capricious controul!
It is playful—enraptured—despairing by turns—till the air
Seems refined into living soul!
V
From the Ocean of Night how strangely those sounds emerge!How fitfully flitting along,
Now hid by the black waves of Silence, now seen o'er their verge,
Comes the air-cleaving, argent-winged Song!
It would seem that grim Darkness, usurping the throne of Day,
Did strive with persuasion bland,
To win to himself the support and the love, if he may,
Of the conquered and mourning Land!
VI
A surprise—a delight, that Oasis of Harmony seems—'Tis unlooked for, unwonted, I ween,
When Silence and Sleep sit brooding o'er nestling Dreams—
As the white Moon at midday seen!
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In some deep lane or lonesome glen,
Would it be, in the darkness close by, should you suddenly hear
Low voices of talking men!
VII
Not more strange is the sound, when the livid sky's obscured,Of a bee humming on through the gloom;
Some lone minstrel-bee of the wilderness—allured
By the dark furze's golden bloom!
Not more strange or delightful, to the Mariner so rude
May the velvet-winged butterfly be,
Wafting dreams of green fields, through some silent solitude
Of the violet, silvery sea!
VIII
What art thou, who flingest thy fullness of feeling pureO'er the voiceless abysm of Night?
Why thy lone Star of Sound, why art gemming the mute obscure
With thy single point of Light?
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Like a rose-bud in winter thou art;
Like Faith at a funeral, joyful—like Love when it glows
In a crime-bedimmed, desperate heart!
IX
Like a Sorceress fair, whose employment we cannot guess;Though fearful it needs must be!
As she stoops o'er her work, and sings in her loneliness,
She deemeth no eye can see;
Then she holds flitting converse, with some Spirit-Familiar near,
Whose answers in silence are lost;
And her voice though so low, in the Night-hush sounds awfully clear—
But what says she? whom can she accost?
X
Thou art like a young Poet, who deep in his midnight retreatGains him skill while the soulless sleep;
Breathing fragments of song, would make even sorrow sweet,
Or win you with gladness to weep!
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And men to his spirit bow down:—
While the Stars shining through the cold Night of Neglect around
Are the glimpses of dear Renown!
XI
Thou art like a meek Maiden, left lonely awhile and drearBy the loved-one whose presence was Day;
Fondly feeding her grief on the songs which to him were dear,
And the tunes which he loved her to play;
And yet, though the Night-gloom of Absence, remembrances sweet,
Starlike, of his true love roll—
Of their thoughts held in common—their confidence complete,
And of all their deep oneness of Soul!
XII
Hark! seems it not Rapture is flashing those rays of verse?“Sing a strain of exceeding Delight!
Sing the heart-thrill of feeling alone, unbeheld to commérce
With the Stars, the Soul of Night!
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To their sweet glances all mine own!
Mine, mine are the Earth and the Sky! for the world of life sleeps—
Joy! Joy! I am all alone!”
XIII
Then Cheerfulness sheds her moonbeams of melody bright:—“Oh tranquil our days shall be;
Our own fond thoughts all my world—my task and delight
The sweet one of tending thee!
In a loving lone dream, from our sheltered shades we will trace
The golden-paced Day till he flies—
Then tunefully doat on the soft-illumined face
Of Night—and those spiritual eyes!”
XIV
It is hushed—and lo! Sorrow is raining her liquid plaint:—“Why—why hast thou flown from me!
Thy form was the food of my Soul—my spirit is faint
With mournfully pining for thee!
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“Dark—dark as my heart is the Sky!
“And the clear solemn Night is no dearer now than Day—
“Oh why hast thou left me, why—why?”—
XV
Methinks as I listen, that it cannot well be true,Spirit-voice! who art warbling thus,
That Sorrow, Hope and Joy are not keenly felt by you
As ever they can be by us!
And the glory of Man, what is it? his excellence, where?
When his songs which have most of divine,
Whose Fame wraps the Nations—eternal—wide-spread as the Air—
Are so easily surpassed by thine?
XVI
But if you sing so blithely, though darkling and all alone,Can it be that repining Men
O'er whom Grief, Doubt, Bereavement, have their deepest shadows thrown,
Should be utterly despairing then?
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To be patient yet a little while,
Till the Mystery of Heaven and Earth, Life, Sorrow, and Death,
In the Daylight of Knowledge shall smile!
July, 1832.
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