Madmoments: or First Verseattempts By a Bornnatural. Addressed to the Lightheaded of Society at Large, by Henry Ellison |
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NIGHTTHOUGHTS. |
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 | Madmoments: or First Verseattempts |  |
NIGHTTHOUGHTS.
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The sky-lamps one by one are lit,And thro' night's gloom their faint rays flit,
Like thoughts that thro' Eternity
Wander 'till lost in mystery.
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Or like the glance that Memory givesAt times to cradleyears, and strives
To lift the veil that hides for aye
The spirit's first Promethean Ray.
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How manyvoiced the nightwinds sigh,Seeming to speak as they whisper by,
To commune low with each dewy flower,
To give and to borrow a mystic power.
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And as it were at their destined Call,The withered leaves scarce murmuring fall,
While the springtide ones more blithely wave,
As if for them time had no grave!
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And calm the Earth lies, fresh and green,Laughing beneath the pure stars' sheen,
Like babe beneath its mother's eye,
Ere yet its lip hath learnt to lie.
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As a Spellmirror the sky might seem,Where of future things the shadows gleam,
And the stars are wove in wordlike guise,
But their Language is not for mortal eyes.
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Oh who can gaze on their mystic ray,Nor feel the Earth pass 'neath his feet away,
And his spirit plunge from Time's dark shore,,
Like a Swimmer afloat on Thought's frail oar
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Alas! it is in vain we diveThe depth of things to be, and strive
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And grow to Gods or little less.
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E'en at the moment when, most free,We ope our eyes, and trust to see:
The dazzling light but glances on
Our filmy sight, and all is gone.
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I turn to Earth, alas! 'tis fair,But what I seek I find not there,
'Tis beautiful, and calmly still,
But yet my heart is sad and chill.—
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In the brake the bird is singing,Echo's undersong is ringing,
On the sward the stars are shining,
All is peace, nought seems repining.
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The mellowthroated NightingaleSings joyous, but it sounds a wail:
The far off brook is babbling on,
To me it tells of bright days gone:
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Fond Memory wanders o'er the sceneAnd tells me what I might have been,
And Hope from life's vain Future brings
No Peacebranch on his drooping wings.
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Alas! he must renew his flightTo farther realms, beyond the night
Of Time, or else for ever miss
The Olivebranch, the pledge of bliss.
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There is no beauty on the Earth,Save that which in the heart has birth:
And not a pulse the peace can share
Of Nature, if sin's fret be there.
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By prayer we tune the Spirit's lyre,And fit it thus for accents higher
Than aught that earthborn strains can wake,
That jar the strings, the true tone break.
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Then merry shall the bird's note seem,And Joy speak in the babbling stream,
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Shall soar, and list the Angels sing.
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Then shall the heart an echo beOf Nature's Centreharmony,
Oft with the Bird again shall sing,
And drink like him at Nature's spring.
| Madmoments: or First Verseattempts | |