Poems Chiefly Written in Retirement, By John Thelwall; With Memoirs of the Life of the Author. Second Edition |
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EFFUSION VIII.
At Merthyr Tydfil. June, 1800.
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EFFUSION VIII. At Merthyr Tydfil. June, 1800.
WHY, from imperfect slumber as I start,
Shake my jarr'd nerves with terror? Why should thus
The pale reflection of the waterish moon
Gleam with ideal phantoms—bodying forth
The shapes of things that are not? Bows the mind
To second infancy? or cling the tales
Of beldame Superstition to the heart,
Scoffing the sceptic Reason? Time has been
I slept and fear'd not; and, amidst the gloom
Of tombs and sepulchres, could walk, unmov'd,
At Midnight's darkest hour. But now the couch
Of solitary slumber scares my sense,
Grief-worn and dizzy—dizzy with the whirl
Of ever-restless anguish!—Fancy leagues
With busy Memory; and the mind, diseas'd,
Deems all her Shadowings real. Reason's boast
Is mine, alas! no longer. My torn heart
Feels, but reflects not; or, reflecting, dwells
But on thy loss, Maria! and mine eyes,
But half unclosing from a dream of thee,
At my bed's foot still view thee.—I could think—
(For Grief, like Fear, its superstitions hath,
That thrill, tho we believe not)—I could think
Thou still didst hover o'er my unblest couch,
And haunt my restless pillow: for sometimes
Thy voice sounds plaintive in the midnight gale;
Or, in the rush of waters, on mine ear,
Steals in articulate moan; or else, thy shade,
Transient and dim, but in proportion'd grace,
Floats in mine eyes—mine eyes that fondly strain,
Thro' the thick vail of tears, to follow thee,
And realize illusion. Such, even now,
Imagination view'd thy beauteous form,
Faded and sad. Upon thy cheek no more
Bloom'd the sweet rose of Health: but such thou seem'st,
Pallid and wan, as when upon the bier
I saw thee stretch'd, of every grace bereft—
Save the soft symmetries, that, even in death,
Made thee all lovely. Yet not lifeless now
Seem'd'st thou, tho pale: the look, the mournful air
Was vital; and thine eye's expressive glance,
In silent eloquence, upon my face
Reproachfully thou turned'st; but yet found,
And full of pitying drops—such drops as erst
(O! lost benignity!) were wont bedew
Thy infant cheek, whene'er Affliction met
(Maid of ingenuous mind!) thy sentient glance.
Shake my jarr'd nerves with terror? Why should thus
The pale reflection of the waterish moon
Gleam with ideal phantoms—bodying forth
The shapes of things that are not? Bows the mind
To second infancy? or cling the tales
Of beldame Superstition to the heart,
Scoffing the sceptic Reason? Time has been
I slept and fear'd not; and, amidst the gloom
Of tombs and sepulchres, could walk, unmov'd,
At Midnight's darkest hour. But now the couch
Of solitary slumber scares my sense,
Grief-worn and dizzy—dizzy with the whirl
Of ever-restless anguish!—Fancy leagues
With busy Memory; and the mind, diseas'd,
Deems all her Shadowings real. Reason's boast
Is mine, alas! no longer. My torn heart
Feels, but reflects not; or, reflecting, dwells
But on thy loss, Maria! and mine eyes,
158
At my bed's foot still view thee.—I could think—
(For Grief, like Fear, its superstitions hath,
That thrill, tho we believe not)—I could think
Thou still didst hover o'er my unblest couch,
And haunt my restless pillow: for sometimes
Thy voice sounds plaintive in the midnight gale;
Or, in the rush of waters, on mine ear,
Steals in articulate moan; or else, thy shade,
Transient and dim, but in proportion'd grace,
Floats in mine eyes—mine eyes that fondly strain,
Thro' the thick vail of tears, to follow thee,
And realize illusion. Such, even now,
Imagination view'd thy beauteous form,
Faded and sad. Upon thy cheek no more
Bloom'd the sweet rose of Health: but such thou seem'st,
Pallid and wan, as when upon the bier
I saw thee stretch'd, of every grace bereft—
Save the soft symmetries, that, even in death,
Made thee all lovely. Yet not lifeless now
Seem'd'st thou, tho pale: the look, the mournful air
Was vital; and thine eye's expressive glance,
In silent eloquence, upon my face
Reproachfully thou turned'st; but yet found,
And full of pitying drops—such drops as erst
(O! lost benignity!) were wont bedew
Thy infant cheek, whene'er Affliction met
(Maid of ingenuous mind!) thy sentient glance.
Ah! such thou seem'st!—and Fancy, full of thee—
Fancy, that coins thy semblance, to my mind,
The woeful look interprets—“Wretched sire!
“O'erwhelm'd with cares and sorrows! while thou striv'd'st
“With thy hard Destiny, with carking toil,
“Solicitous, to snatch thy scanty means
“From prowling Plunder, or the inclement rage
“Of an ungenial season, unobserv'd,
“Upon the vitals of thy dearest hope
“Seiz'd the unbaffled pest; and treasuring that
“Thy soul so little values, thou hast lost
“All that thou deem'd'st worth treasuring.”
Fancy, that coins thy semblance, to my mind,
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“O'erwhelm'd with cares and sorrows! while thou striv'd'st
“With thy hard Destiny, with carking toil,
“Solicitous, to snatch thy scanty means
“From prowling Plunder, or the inclement rage
“Of an ungenial season, unobserv'd,
“Upon the vitals of thy dearest hope
“Seiz'd the unbaffled pest; and treasuring that
“Thy soul so little values, thou hast lost
“All that thou deem'd'st worth treasuring.”
Ah! most true!
Thou, my sweet babe! art to my hostile stars
Another sacrifice—another fine
(Heavier than all the past) that I have paid
For love of human nature—for the crime
Of universal brotherhood, that, thus,
Dooms me, in exile from the social sphere
Of humaniz'd fraternity, to weep
Thy early loss—in whom myself am lost.
Thou, my sweet babe! art to my hostile stars
Another sacrifice—another fine
(Heavier than all the past) that I have paid
For love of human nature—for the crime
Of universal brotherhood, that, thus,
Dooms me, in exile from the social sphere
Of humaniz'd fraternity, to weep
Thy early loss—in whom myself am lost.
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