The Poetical Works of James Thomson The City of Dreadful Night: By James Thomson ("B. V."): Edited by Bertram Dobell: With a Memoir of the Author: In two volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of James Thomson |  |
XVI.
As one who in the morning-shine
Reels homeward, shameful, wan, adust,
From orgies wild with fiery wine
And reckless sin and brutish lust:
And sees a doorway open wide,
And then the grand Cathedral space;
And hurries in to crouch and hide
His trembling frame, his branded face.
Reels homeward, shameful, wan, adust,
From orgies wild with fiery wine
And reckless sin and brutish lust:
173
And then the grand Cathedral space;
And hurries in to crouch and hide
His trembling frame, his branded face.
The organ-thunders surge and roll
And thrill the heights of branching stone;
They shake his mind, they crush his soul,
His heart knells to them with a moan:
He hears the voice of holy prayer,
The chanting of the fervent hymn;
They pierce his depths of sick despair,
He trembles more, his eyes are dim.
And thrill the heights of branching stone;
They shake his mind, they crush his soul,
His heart knells to them with a moan:
He hears the voice of holy prayer,
The chanting of the fervent hymn;
They pierce his depths of sick despair,
He trembles more, his eyes are dim.
He sees the world-wide morning flame
Through windows where in glory shine
The saints who fought and overcame,
The martyrs who made death divine:
He sees pure women bent in prayer,
Communing low with God above:—
Too pure! what right has he to share
Their silent feast of sacred love?
Through windows where in glory shine
The saints who fought and overcame,
The martyrs who made death divine:
He sees pure women bent in prayer,
Communing low with God above:—
Too pure! what right has he to share
Their silent feast of sacred love?
How can he join the songs of praise?
His throat is parched, his brain is wild:
How dare he seek the Father's gaze,
Thus hopeless, loveless, and defiled?
How taint the pureness—though he yearn
To join such fellowship for aye? . . .
He creeps out pale—May he return
Some time when he shall dare to stay!
His throat is parched, his brain is wild:
How dare he seek the Father's gaze,
Thus hopeless, loveless, and defiled?
174
To join such fellowship for aye? . . .
He creeps out pale—May he return
Some time when he shall dare to stay!
As he within that holy fane,
Was I upon that solemn shore;
One murky cloud, one spoiling stain,
One jarring note,—all these and more:
A Spectre from the wicked Past,
Familiar with the buried years;
The joys that fade, the griefs that last,
The baffled hopes, the constant fears;
Was I upon that solemn shore;
One murky cloud, one spoiling stain,
One jarring note,—all these and more:
A Spectre from the wicked Past,
Familiar with the buried years;
The joys that fade, the griefs that last,
The baffled hopes, the constant fears;
The fair, fair dawn of many a day
That sinks in storm-clouds red and wild;
The souls that in their huts of clay
Are crushed and buried, all defiled;
The Lusts that rage like savage steeds,
While Will with reinless hand sleeps on,
And drunken Thought but goads their speeds,—
Then one mad plunge, and all is gone;
That sinks in storm-clouds red and wild;
The souls that in their huts of clay
Are crushed and buried, all defiled;
The Lusts that rage like savage steeds,
While Will with reinless hand sleeps on,
And drunken Thought but goads their speeds,—
Then one mad plunge, and all is gone;
The Moods that strew palm-branches now
And with Hosannas fill the sky,
Then shortly crown with thorns the brow
And mock and scourge and crucify;
The error, guile and infamy,
The waste of foul and bloody strife,
The unforeseen catastrophe,
That make the doleful drama, Life.
And with Hosannas fill the sky,
Then shortly crown with thorns the brow
And mock and scourge and crucify;
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The waste of foul and bloody strife,
The unforeseen catastrophe,
That make the doleful drama, Life.
Ah, what had I to do with these
Young lovely souls serene and clear,
Awaking up by fine degrees
To life unsullied as its sphere?
The Spectre that has roamed forlorn,
Sin-restless, through the sombre night,
Must creep to its old grave at morn,
Nor blot the world of life and light.
Young lovely souls serene and clear,
Awaking up by fine degrees
To life unsullied as its sphere?
The Spectre that has roamed forlorn,
Sin-restless, through the sombre night,
Must creep to its old grave at morn,
Nor blot the world of life and light.
| The Poetical Works of James Thomson | |