Night and the soul A dramatic poem. By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
Scene IX.
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| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
 | Night and the soul |  |
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Scene IX.
A Banquet Room. Night.Charles, Henry, Edward, Amelia, Mary, &c.
Henry.
Night has come down upon us like a guest:
The stars are trembling in the cope of heaven;
And the light winds sing their low lullabies
Unto the sleeping flowers. The moon has come
Climbing the tree-tops to look in on us,
And the wine sparkles goldenly at her.
Our talk has been a wealthy summer-time
Aflush with flowers, and mellow-tasting fruits.
But now a chilling silence hath crept in,
Like Winter to a garden! Drive it hence!
Ruffle the plumage of this bird of night
With a great gust of song!
All.
A song! A song!
Let music fill up all the gaps of life.
Edward begin.
Edward.
A bank of flowers! A bank of flowers!
And sunshine steeping the Summer hours;
Sunshine gambolling up with the clouds,
Shining on river, and cottage, and hall;
Sunshine laughing in wrinkled old lanes,
And wagging the beard of the waterfall;
Sunshine dancing along the sea;
Sunshine filling the cup of the air;
Sunshine glinting along the leaves—
Sunshine, sunshine—everywhere!
And sunshine steeping the Summer hours;
Sunshine gambolling up with the clouds,
Shining on river, and cottage, and hall;
Sunshine laughing in wrinkled old lanes,
And wagging the beard of the waterfall;
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Sunshine filling the cup of the air;
Sunshine glinting along the leaves—
Sunshine, sunshine—everywhere!
And a maiden sits on the bank of flowers,
Looses her tresses, and clasps her white hands,
Thrills at the glory that fills the blue sky,
Smiles at the smile of the shining lands.
Her cheek is just wetted with tears of bliss,
There is sunshine without, and sunshine within;—
Ah! who could think in a scene like this
That the world had been blotted and marr'd by sin?
Her eyelashes tremble, her ruddy lips move,—
What beauty, what bliss to the summer are given!
Ah! which is the fairest—this sun-gilded globe—
Or the pink-clouded porch of yon golden-brow'd heaven?
The maiden sits, and clasps her white hands,
(With very joy her heart is brimming,)
And the light in the soft, deep blue of her eye
Like a star in a sea of bliss is swimming.
But a snake glides out of a clump of flowers,
And his gold and purples might match the skies;—
Oh! the glory that gleams o'er the sleek-mail'd sides,
Oh! the mocking light of his wierd-like eyes!
Looses her tresses, and clasps her white hands,
Thrills at the glory that fills the blue sky,
Smiles at the smile of the shining lands.
Her cheek is just wetted with tears of bliss,
There is sunshine without, and sunshine within;—
Ah! who could think in a scene like this
That the world had been blotted and marr'd by sin?
Her eyelashes tremble, her ruddy lips move,—
What beauty, what bliss to the summer are given!
Ah! which is the fairest—this sun-gilded globe—
Or the pink-clouded porch of yon golden-brow'd heaven?
The maiden sits, and clasps her white hands,
(With very joy her heart is brimming,)
And the light in the soft, deep blue of her eye
Like a star in a sea of bliss is swimming.
But a snake glides out of a clump of flowers,
And his gold and purples might match the skies;—
Oh! the glory that gleams o'er the sleek-mail'd sides,
Oh! the mocking light of his wierd-like eyes!
A wreath of snow! A wreath of snow!
Darkness above, and night below!
Snow on the mountains, and snow on the vales;
Snow upon moorland, and cottage, and hall,—
Frost over all, choking up the old lanes,
And stiffening the beard of the waterfall.
Snow marking the marge of the sullen sea;
Snow piercing the gloom of the midnight air;
Snow lining the ribs of the moaning trees.
Above and below
Nothing but snow,
And winter and darkness—everywhere!
Darkness above, and night below!
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Snow upon moorland, and cottage, and hall,—
Frost over all, choking up the old lanes,
And stiffening the beard of the waterfall.
Snow marking the marge of the sullen sea;
Snow piercing the gloom of the midnight air;
Snow lining the ribs of the moaning trees.
Above and below
Nothing but snow,
And winter and darkness—everywhere!
And the maiden sits on a wreath of snow,
Looses her tresses, and clasps her thin hands,
Trembles to look on the great black sky,
Shivers to see the ghostly lands.
Her cheek is just wetted with tears of woe;
There is terror without and darkness within,—
Oh! who could think, in a scene like this,
That the world had known anything else but sin?
Her eyelashes tremble, her pallid lips move,—
What fear, and what terror to winter are given!
Oh! which is the darkest—this sun-orphan'd globe—
Or the black-clouded porch of yon angry-brow'd heaven?
The maiden sits and clasps her thin hands,
(With very woe her heart is brimming,)
And the light in the anguish'd blue of her eye,
Like a corpse in a troubled sea is swimming.
But no snake glides out of the wreath of snow,
With its gold and purples to match the skies;
For ah! it has done its hateful task,
With the mocking light of those wierd-like eyes!
Looses her tresses, and clasps her thin hands,
Trembles to look on the great black sky,
Shivers to see the ghostly lands.
Her cheek is just wetted with tears of woe;
There is terror without and darkness within,—
Oh! who could think, in a scene like this,
That the world had known anything else but sin?
Her eyelashes tremble, her pallid lips move,—
What fear, and what terror to winter are given!
Oh! which is the darkest—this sun-orphan'd globe—
Or the black-clouded porch of yon angry-brow'd heaven?
The maiden sits and clasps her thin hands,
(With very woe her heart is brimming,)
And the light in the anguish'd blue of her eye,
Like a corpse in a troubled sea is swimming.
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With its gold and purples to match the skies;
For ah! it has done its hateful task,
With the mocking light of those wierd-like eyes!
Charles.
Sorrow and sin—an old tale, friend of mine.
Methinks a song clear as a silver lake
With one star on it would befit this night.
Henry.
Aye night has been good to us. Let her go
Hung round with songs as morn will be with flowers.
Come butterflies of poesy, arise;
Spread out your light-involvéd wings, and soar,
And let the night trail into golden day,
With her skirts stiffen'd with soul-jewelry!
Amelia.
Edward has struck the key. Come, Henry, sing;
And I will wander through the harp's sweet strings,
Like the low wind in May among the flowers,
Or like the murmur of the starlit sea,
To the soft warble of the nightingale.
Henry.
Ah, thus invited, who could e'er resist?
Thou pleadest, love, and all things plead;
For what is life but endless needing?
All worlds have wants beyond themselves,
And live by ceaseless pleading.
For what is life but endless needing?
All worlds have wants beyond themselves,
And live by ceaseless pleading.
The earth yearns towards the sun for light,
The stars all tremble towards each other;
And every moon that shines to-night
Hangs trembling on an elder brother.
The stars all tremble towards each other;
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Hangs trembling on an elder brother.
Flowers plead for grace to live; and bees
Plead for the tinted domes of flowers;
Streams rush into the big-soul'd seas;
The seas yearn for the golden hours.
Plead for the tinted domes of flowers;
Streams rush into the big-soul'd seas;
The seas yearn for the golden hours.
The moon pleads for her preacher, Night;
Old ocean pleadeth for the moon;
Noon flies into the shades for rest;
The shades seek out the noon.
Old ocean pleadeth for the moon;
Noon flies into the shades for rest;
The shades seek out the noon.
Life is an everlasting seeking,
Souls seek, and pant, and plead for truth.
Youth hangeth on the skirts of age,
Age yearneth still towards youth.
Souls seek, and pant, and plead for truth.
Youth hangeth on the skirts of age,
Age yearneth still towards youth.
And thus all cling unto each other;
For nought from all things else is riven.
Heaven bendeth o'er the prostrate earth,
Earth spreads her arms towards heaven.
For nought from all things else is riven.
Heaven bendeth o'er the prostrate earth,
Earth spreads her arms towards heaven.
So, do thou bend above me, love,
And I will bless thee from afar;
Thou shalt be heaven, and I the sea
That bosometh the star.
And I will bless thee from afar;
Thou shalt be heaven, and I the sea
That bosometh the star.
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Cold, Henry, cold, and philosophical.
Thou art a very Newton in thy love.
Come light thy pipe, and take thy lady's hand,
And use it for a stopper—as he did!
Spinoza laugh'd to see the spiders fight.
Sages do silly things sometimes I think,—
Nought half so foolish as to fall in love!
To think of bringing dust from ancient tomes,
To lay it on a lady's spotless glove,
And hope that she will love you for its sake!
Lore must be fresh to win a lady's heart,
Fresh as she is, and sparkling like the dew.
There is new wisdom in a lovely face
That shames the old for ever,—drives it back
Into the Titan-world of dim old shapes.
Love liveth in to-day, and in to-morrow,
And yesterday is nothing to the heart.
Hegel and Fichté in a lady's bower
Are blocks of marble to a gay parterre.
Love smileth on the bright and blooming flowers,
And leaveth truth to fester with their roots.
It looks not to the wherefore, but shines on,
Like yonder moon, in spite of all the creeds.
To me the universe is one great heart;
And love the only passion of the spheres.
The winds but whisper one soul-stirring word;
The trees all bend their stately heads to this;
Old Ocean heaves it from his panting breast;
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And the great tongue of Night that sounds in “stars”
Singeth this one word only.—It is Love!
Edward.
Come, grumbler, sing thyself, a song in which
Love shall come leaping from thy throbbing lines
Like the young soul of music from a harp!
Charles.
Thy hand! Thy hand! Thy lily hand,
It flushes all my brow.
Thy voice! Thy voice! Thy silver voice,
It thrills my spirit now.
A joy hath grown up in my heart,
It fans my life to bliss;
It is the infant of thy lips—
The baby of thy kiss!
And it hath ruffled o'er my soul,
And drawn forth all its powers,
Like July-winds upon the lips
Of golden-hearted flowers.
It flushes all my brow.
Thy voice! Thy voice! Thy silver voice,
It thrills my spirit now.
A joy hath grown up in my heart,
It fans my life to bliss;
It is the infant of thy lips—
The baby of thy kiss!
And it hath ruffled o'er my soul,
And drawn forth all its powers,
Like July-winds upon the lips
Of golden-hearted flowers.
Bend o'er me with those starry eyes,
Those eyelids milky white;
Sink on my storm-impassion'd breast,
Like a peace-giving night:
Bend o'er me with thy sky-like brow,
Which all the stars might seek:—
Bend o'er me;—let thy golden hair
Trail on my burning cheek.
My heart leaps towards thee, as the sea
Pants at the maiden moon;
A swimming haze comes o'er my soul,
Like a great sultry noon:
And all my life is lined with music-bars,
Pack'd with sweet notes that tremble like the stars!
Those eyelids milky white;
Sink on my storm-impassion'd breast,
Like a peace-giving night:
Bend o'er me with thy sky-like brow,
Which all the stars might seek:—
Bend o'er me;—let thy golden hair
Trail on my burning cheek.
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Pants at the maiden moon;
A swimming haze comes o'er my soul,
Like a great sultry noon:
And all my life is lined with music-bars,
Pack'd with sweet notes that tremble like the stars!
Mary.
Now I will sing a song of Winter-time.
Poor Edith gave it me before she died.
Alexis wrote it for her, I was told.
Poor Edith gave it me before she died.
Alexis wrote it for her, I was told.
I stand beside thy lonely grave, my love.
The wet lands stretch below me like a bog;
Darkness comes showering down upon me fast;
The wind is whining like a houseless dog;—
The cold, cold wind is whining round thy grave,
It comes up wet, and dripping from the fen;
The tawny twilight creeps into the dark,
Like a dun, angry lion to his den.
The wet lands stretch below me like a bog;
Darkness comes showering down upon me fast;
The wind is whining like a houseless dog;—
The cold, cold wind is whining round thy grave,
It comes up wet, and dripping from the fen;
The tawny twilight creeps into the dark,
Like a dun, angry lion to his den.
There is a forlorn moaning in the air—
A sobbing round the spot where thou art sleeping;
There is a dull glare in the wintry sky,
As though the eye of heaven were red with weeping.
Sharp gusts of tears come raining from the clouds,
The ancient church looks desolate and wild;
There is a deep, cold shiver in the earth,
As though the great world hunger'd for her child.
A sobbing round the spot where thou art sleeping;
There is a dull glare in the wintry sky,
As though the eye of heaven were red with weeping.
Sharp gusts of tears come raining from the clouds,
The ancient church looks desolate and wild;
There is a deep, cold shiver in the earth,
As though the great world hunger'd for her child.
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The very trees fling their gaunt arms on high,
Calling for Summer to come back again;
Earth cries that Heaven has quite deserted her,
Heaven answers but in showers of drizzling rain.
The rain comes plashing on my pallid face;
Night, like a witch, is squatting on the ground;
The storm is rising, and its howling wail
Goes baying round her, like a hungry hound.
Calling for Summer to come back again;
Earth cries that Heaven has quite deserted her,
Heaven answers but in showers of drizzling rain.
The rain comes plashing on my pallid face;
Night, like a witch, is squatting on the ground;
The storm is rising, and its howling wail
Goes baying round her, like a hungry hound.
The clouds, like grim, black faces, come and go.
One tall tree stretches up against the sky;
It lets the rain through, like a trembling hand
Pressing thin fingers on a watery eye.
The moon came, but shrank back, like a young girl
Who has burst in upon funereal sadness;
One star came—Cleopatra-like, the Night
Swallow'd this one pearl in a fit of madness.
And here I stand, the weltering heaven above,
Beside thy lonely grave, my lost, my buried love!
One tall tree stretches up against the sky;
It lets the rain through, like a trembling hand
Pressing thin fingers on a watery eye.
The moon came, but shrank back, like a young girl
Who has burst in upon funereal sadness;
One star came—Cleopatra-like, the Night
Swallow'd this one pearl in a fit of madness.
And here I stand, the weltering heaven above,
Beside thy lonely grave, my lost, my buried love!
Henry.
Ah! like Alexis—pack'd with crowded thought;
Dark, and yet radiant, like an eagle's plumes,
Scarr'd by the lightnings it was playing with.
I saw him with a letter in his hand:
He said it came from Edith—she was dead.
Mary.
I sat with her that April night she died.
The moon was up, and all the stars were out.
The new year swath'd in moonbeams, like a babe
Play'd with the early flowers; then wept soft tears.
There was a ruffling as of wings outside—
Of holy angels' wings. Earth seem'd near heaven.
A wind was rambling up among the clouds,
A wreath of glory lay athwart the East,
Like a great prophet's robe, and spoke of morn,—
Of morn and of the stars,—of earth and heaven.
Streamers kept coming through the gate of night,
Couriers of mercy from star-palaces.
The world seem'd lifted in the arms of prayer
All sobbing, to the lap of mother heaven,
Like a dear tearful child that has made peace.
It was a holy night. She told me all.
“A packet for Alexis, when I'm dead.”
And then the fair one spoke to me of God,
And of his angels,—of the thrones and crowns,
And of the bliss supernal of the skies.
She seem'd more like an angel come from heaven
Than a poor spirit who was travelling there.
There was a gentle wisdom in her speech,
A wisdom soft as feather-footed sleep.
There was a great white spirit in the skies,—
So the sweet prattler said,—who, night by night,
Smiled on her from behind the little moon;
And thrust his mighty hand below the stars,
To lift her to her sapphire seat in heaven.
He drew dream-curtains back, and she could see
Great crowds of happy faces smiling through,
Stretching white arms to welcome her above.
And then there came a pause—a long, long pause.
Methought the night stood still, starr'd as she was,
And hush'd the winds, as a Queen Mother might
The noisy babble of her happy babes,
To let a sad procession pass in peace;—
And I grew dizzy.
The moon was up, and all the stars were out.
The new year swath'd in moonbeams, like a babe
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There was a ruffling as of wings outside—
Of holy angels' wings. Earth seem'd near heaven.
A wind was rambling up among the clouds,
A wreath of glory lay athwart the East,
Like a great prophet's robe, and spoke of morn,—
Of morn and of the stars,—of earth and heaven.
Streamers kept coming through the gate of night,
Couriers of mercy from star-palaces.
The world seem'd lifted in the arms of prayer
All sobbing, to the lap of mother heaven,
Like a dear tearful child that has made peace.
It was a holy night. She told me all.
“A packet for Alexis, when I'm dead.”
And then the fair one spoke to me of God,
And of his angels,—of the thrones and crowns,
And of the bliss supernal of the skies.
She seem'd more like an angel come from heaven
Than a poor spirit who was travelling there.
There was a gentle wisdom in her speech,
A wisdom soft as feather-footed sleep.
There was a great white spirit in the skies,—
So the sweet prattler said,—who, night by night,
Smiled on her from behind the little moon;
And thrust his mighty hand below the stars,
To lift her to her sapphire seat in heaven.
He drew dream-curtains back, and she could see
Great crowds of happy faces smiling through,
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And then there came a pause—a long, long pause.
Methought the night stood still, starr'd as she was,
And hush'd the winds, as a Queen Mother might
The noisy babble of her happy babes,
To let a sad procession pass in peace;—
And I grew dizzy.
From the bed arose
A sweet, wild sound, like that the zephyrs make
When they come crowding on the wind-harp's strings.
Then all was silent. And her eyes were fix'd,
Trembling no more like starlight in the dew.
One arm was laid upon the coverlet:
One thin, white arm, like a pale streak of dawn.
They said that she was dead!
A sweet, wild sound, like that the zephyrs make
When they come crowding on the wind-harp's strings.
Then all was silent. And her eyes were fix'd,
Trembling no more like starlight in the dew.
One arm was laid upon the coverlet:
One thin, white arm, like a pale streak of dawn.
They said that she was dead!
| Night and the soul | |