Poems By Alfred Domett |
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DEATH.
Ω σκοτος, 'εμον φαος:
Soph: Ajax.
Soph: Ajax.
Oh thou, whate'er thou art, whose name
Is Terror's trumpet-call!
The knell of everything but Fame
On this terrestrial ball—
Thou undefined and shadowy Thing,
Whose ever-haunting dusky wing
Hangs dimly over all,—
A moment sweep thy clouds away
And stand revealed in open day!
Is Terror's trumpet-call!
The knell of everything but Fame
On this terrestrial ball—
Thou undefined and shadowy Thing,
Whose ever-haunting dusky wing
Hangs dimly over all,—
A moment sweep thy clouds away
And stand revealed in open day!
I've wondered oft what thou might'st be,
Since first my life began,
And tried as well to picture thee
As Doubt and Darkness can—
And now, e'er yet we close, thou Foe,
Whom all engage, yet none o'erthrow,
I would thy features scan;
And measure well thy breadth and height,
Like combatants before they fight.
Since first my life began,
And tried as well to picture thee
As Doubt and Darkness can—
And now, e'er yet we close, thou Foe,
Whom all engage, yet none o'erthrow,
I would thy features scan;
And measure well thy breadth and height,
Like combatants before they fight.
42
How oft doth charmed childhood read,
In Araby's bright lore,
Of dangers dark to him decreed,
And woes unfelt before,
Whose venturous arm should rashly bold
Some mystic portal dare unfold;
Yet ardour to explore
The secrets deep he there might read,
Hath nerved him to the desperate deed.
In Araby's bright lore,
Of dangers dark to him decreed,
And woes unfelt before,
Whose venturous arm should rashly bold
Some mystic portal dare unfold;
Yet ardour to explore
The secrets deep he there might read,
Hath nerved him to the desperate deed.
And thus, there seems so much to know
Which only thou canst teach,
Such rest from pain, disgust, and woe,
Which none but thou can'st reach,
Thou should'st to Reason's eye appear
A thing to hope for, not to fear,
A blessing to beseech;
And man should joy to see thee nigh,
And deem it liberty to die.
Which only thou canst teach,
Such rest from pain, disgust, and woe,
Which none but thou can'st reach,
Thou should'st to Reason's eye appear
A thing to hope for, not to fear,
A blessing to beseech;
And man should joy to see thee nigh,
And deem it liberty to die.
Why was this burning thirst for Fame
Into my breast instilled?
Why was I born with hope and aim
Which ne'er could be fulfilled?
Would I were dead!—for then my breast
Would find at least a little rest,
This throbbing heart be stilled—
Again—again—would I were dead,
That I might rest this weary head!
Into my breast instilled?
Why was I born with hope and aim
Which ne'er could be fulfilled?
Would I were dead!—for then my breast
Would find at least a little rest,
43
Again—again—would I were dead,
That I might rest this weary head!
And oft, perhaps, on silent night,
When all is still and lone,
The watery moonbeams, silvery bright,
May rest on the cold stone;
And I no other tears will crave,
No other mourners o'er my grave,
Forgotten and unknown!
There weeds may grow, there worms may creep,
But nought shall break that stirless sleep.
When all is still and lone,
The watery moonbeams, silvery bright,
May rest on the cold stone;
And I no other tears will crave,
No other mourners o'er my grave,
Forgotten and unknown!
There weeds may grow, there worms may creep,
But nought shall break that stirless sleep.
April, 1830.
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