Night a descriptive poem, Part I in four books [by Ebenezer Elliott] |
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| I. | BOOK I.
THE LOVERS. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | Night |  |
BOOK I. THE LOVERS.
I.
Night, I will sing of thee! while o'er my soulCare broods like Darkness, which the hopeless pass'd
Haunts, drinking her own tears, and—still too late,—
Offering her phantom-aid of mockery.
I love thy face, when it is calm and sad,
As Valor's dying hour, or the stern mind
That suffers, and is mute. I love thee, Night,
When each near object, like a corse laid out,
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Sleep on their shadows vast, in dimness cloth'd.
Which, as with magic transformation, gives
To bounded things seeming infinity,
And shapes grotesque or awful, at the will
Of wizard Fancy. Man's ingratitude
Out-frowns thy darkness; Man's hypocrisy
More perilous is than all thy paths of gloom;
But hath the lip of Man, even in death,
A smile so lovely and serene as thine,
When thy wan moon, and all her sisterhood,
Look on the sleep of Nature, while the long
Grass of the grave is tranquil as the dust,
That once was life, and power, and intellect?
Is there, oh! Night, a wretch with blasted heart,
Who hath no friend but thee, no joy but one,
The joy of Terror? Bid him look on Man!
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Compar'd with that strange chaos, that wild hell,
Which scath'd Remorse or wither'd Rancor bears
In his perturbed breast. Hast thou, Oh, Night,
A scowl like his, who hates whom he hath wrong'd?
Hast thou a tempest wild as Jealousy?
Hast thou a scene terrific as the mind
In ruins—as the human heart deprav'd?
Behold Ambition blasted! Look on him
Who calls the wrongs he doeth benefits,
And bids his victim thank him for a stab!
Hark! 'tis Rapacity, tearless and stern,
Who curses whom he spoils! Lo, Calumny,
The smiler and the saint, the dagger-tongued,
Who murders worth with words! All-dreaded Night,
Hid'st thou in deepest gloom ought half so sad,
Or foul, or terrible, as the revenge
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To trample on the fall'n? as the vile Spleen
That feels its worthlessness, and persecutes
What it admires, and envies what it loathes,
And loathes because it envies? as Despair,
Who, fearing evil, seeks the worst of ills,
Death? or that dark and bosom'd Blasphemy,
Which bids the demon-passions call on heav'n
To do the devil's work? It is not Night,
It is himself, whom Man hath cause to fear.—
Cruel in kindness, terrible in love,
His heart strange contradictions reconciles,
Itself the strangest, an enigma sad.
II.
What love-lorn youth, above the torrent's roar,,Stands like a dreaming seer, and, motionless,
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Henry Macdonald. 'Mid his native snows
Of Caledonia, never rose a pine
More hardy, never wav'd an Alpine larch
Of wilder graces. From his manly mein
The charm'd spectator, wond'ring, turn'd away
Reluctant, and enamor'd Memory still
Lov'd to recal the fire-glance of his eye.
So, by the lakes of faery Cumberland,
'Mid heights uncouth, to the wild melody
Of rock-rills vocal, grows in loneliness
A rare and stately flower; the wanderer
Seeing its beauty, wonders, as he treads
The morning dews, and lingers still to gaze,
And in the aftertimes remembers still
The plant so rare and stately. But, 'twas thought,
His eye was dim, and sad his daimen smile,
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The blushing stranger, who, to Severn's banks
Returning from the mountain'd Thule, bore
His heart with her. Yet, ere she went, she vow'd
That she would be his bride, of previous vows
Forgetful, to another strongly sworn,
With too, too facile tongue. Why droop'd he then?
Why? She was absent. Findorn's wizard wave,
And dark-isled Lomond's brightness, and unclimb'd
Shihallion, and Lohial's virgin snows
Could please no more; but his impatient soul
Counted the hours, till she should be his bride.
III.
Amid surrounding mountains, dark with shade,Where infant Severn wimples through the fern,
Earth's sweetest valley sleeps, like Loveliness
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So beauteous, that the erring heart of Man
Might place the dwelling there of Happiness,
Whose home is heaven! But there, in reed-roof'd cot,
Eliza, fairest far of Cambrian maids,
Dwelt with her parents aged, their only child.
Her knew the valleys, and each mountain lone,
Each mead and pathless forest, where she sought
The children of the desert. She, ye flowers,
Lov'd you! and she could bid ye smile in death,
And give your fading hues eternity.
Less wildly graceful was the salient roe,
On the heath's purple! like the Alpine maid
That bounds on heights snow-covered, she appear'd,
Freedom, the dauntless, and the mountain-born;
Nor unlike Freedom's mountain sister, Health,
That huntress, tall and fair, who sees clouds roll
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She lov'd the desert, with its infinite
Of wond'rous grandeur, and wild gloominess.
Aye, and she lov'd the Muses. And the woods
Wav'd on her canvas their unnumber'd trees,
The hill storm-crested bade his pines aspire,
The horse ramp'd in his pastures, torrents rush'd
In seeming thunder; or th' enchantress, Spring,
On hoar wastes smiling, chang'd the ice to flowers;
Or Winter scarf'd the cloud around his form,
Yok'd the loud winds, and o'er the barren deep
Bade Death and Terror scourge his gloomy steeds.
But when she pour'd her soul in song!—her voice,
Sweet as the smiles of angels, gave the verse
A more than mortal euphony, and lapp'd
The hearer's soul in rapture's dulcet heav'n.
And, hark! her voice is heard along the wild,
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Descends beneath th' eternal forest's shade,
The homeward laborer stops and listens there,
While the grey glooming, slow and silent comes,
Like a sad widow mourning still her lord,
Tho' long hath crept the crisp moss o'er his grave.
IV.
‘While the virgin's pale plant is festooning the bowers,And the lily below is in tears,
Perfume-breathing hawthorn, winds scatter thy flowers,
And the wane of thy beauty appears.
Alone in the forest with blossoms of snow,
The lovely wild cherry is seen;
The dove croos, how sweetly! the shower falling slow,
Scatters gems on earth's mantle of green.
How swiftly this little rill slides thro' the grass,
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Like the light that fades there, like a vision they pass,
And leave nought but gloom on the heart.
Our youth is a flower, and its fragrance is love,
And its beauty to perish was made:
Young damsels, oh, pluck the ripe flower as ye rove,
Oh, snatch the frail flower ere it fade!’
V.
Maid of the fields, why sigh'st thou? Poetess,Lovely and lov'd! what cause hast thou for tears?
Why dost thou fear to hope all will be well?
Behold the flowers are faded in thine hand!
Art thou not weary with far wandering?
Return! lest sadness in thy mother's heart
Chide thy long absence. But on the dark,ning west
She turns the mournful sweetness of her eye,
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‘Oh, haste to rise, departed orb!’ she cries,
‘Tomorrow Hymen gives me to my love.
‘But that tomorrow! will it ever be?’
She dropp'd the gather'd wild flowers from her hand;
And night o'er all had spread the gradual shade,
When faint Eliza reach'd her happy home.
VI.
The laborer's homeward footstep on the windIs heard no more. Earth slumbers, and is still.
'Twas but the breeze! and at the shaking twig
Starts the faint echo, while the trembling leaves
Dance with the moon-beam on th' awaken'd wave;
And now they pause, and now are motionless.
Silence rests, pillow'd on his arm, as erst
He listen'd to the sighs of sleeping Love,
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The blissful father of mankind sunk first
To sweet repose. And such repose enjoy
The aged parents of the Cambrian maid.
Thro' all the lone, lone night they sleep, and kiss,
In dreams, Eliza's cheek, which, vein-inlaid,
Droops, like the blush-rose with its tender tints.
Her heart's deep silence eloquently speaks,
And sad are lonely Fancy's whisperings.
‘Why rest your heavy wings, ye long-desir'd
‘Hours?’ saith the sigh that heaves her bosom's snow.
‘Come, Caledonian! come! delay no more,
‘Soft slumber's too, too lovely enemy!
‘Man of my heart, thou sleepest! Oh, he sleeps
‘Idealess, far, (fond one!) far from thee.
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VII.
The dawn delay'd, and idle darkness, deem'dThe friend of love; and envious Night was slow.
Th' intrusive moon-beam thro' her curtains peep'd,
Illumining the big tear, as it gush'd
From wakeful eyes, thro' long-lash'd lids half clos'd;
For in her heart restless anxiety
Foreboded woe. She rose half up, she sigh'd;
She rose, she pac'd her chamber's loneliness,
And started at her footsteps. Pale she sate
And, from her lowly window, on the deep
Solemnity of Nature gaz'd, in thought
Lost, while the stillness of creation hymn'd
The great Creator. Tears were fain to flow;
And in her eye beam'd her soul's tenderness,
And whisper'd to the listening Solitude:
‘What soothing shade, what solemn duskiness!
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‘That seems to consecrate their murmurless
‘Meanders; Oh, how softly, valley-stream,
‘How sweetly glide thy waters! now unseen,
‘Now splendid in the light so beautiful,
‘So chaste, so tranquil! But more sweetly glide
‘The gentle hours of matrimonial love,
‘Whose calmness is elysium to the soul.’
VIII.
Then, trembling, sighing, blushing, she put onHer snowy bridal robes, and from the cot
Walk'd, fairer than the sun-beams of the spring.
Flowers, planted by the reinless winds, she trode
Beneath her feet, (so Time on Beauty treads;)
She wept them not, the maiden saw them not;
And on the lawn they sank to bloom no more;
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To shed the dew-drop from their azure eyes.
Beneath her favorite maple she sate down:
The sparkling stream, which bath'd its naked roots,
Wander'd before her wildly; and she sate,
Beauteous, with sable tresses negligent,
As Evening in her mildness, when the breeze
Plays with her dusky hair. Her pensive cheek
Reclining on the languor of her arm,
She, all-unconscious, wept, while her blue eyes
Look'd downwards on the little rivulet,
And seem'd to count, yet saw them not, the waves.
Beauteous in tears, while stormy clouds convene
On the gruff mountain, ere the rain descend,
Thus bends th' aurelian globe-flower, o'er the rill
That mirrors its reclining loveliness.
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IX.
No wind? The aspin slept. And yet she thoughtThe hawthorn rustled near her! She arose
On tiptoe—hope was earnest in her eye,—
She listen'd!—Was it not a coming step?
Soft as the moonlight, smil'd extatic thought,
And Fancy gave a hushand to her arms.
But swart was he, and withering was his look,
Who came so stilly on her privacy.
‘Glanfillan?’ shrieking, she exclaim'd, and shrank,
And would have fled;—but with no feeble grasp
Th' intruder held her. ‘Aye 'tis I!’ he cried,
‘Canst thou not trust thy senses? I am here!
‘Unwelcome—unexpected—that I know,
‘And am glad of it.—Guilty, fearful fool!
‘In vain thou striv'st to fly, yet well may'st strive—
‘I am not he whom thou should'st rush to meet.’
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X.
‘Hast thou not had thine answer?’ she reply'd.‘I cannot love thee. What would'st thou have more?
‘My parents would abhor to call thee son;
‘Yet hate they not, they fear thee, and with cause.
‘Few are thy gloomy words, thy deeds unknown,—
‘Not unsuspected. Who hath heard thee name
‘Thy country, or thy parentage? Dark Man!
‘Suspicion dwells with Mystery. Away!’
XI.
‘Think not,’ he answer'd, ‘that I come the slave‘Of whining hope, to merit (what I scorn,)
‘Thy contumely. Nor did I come to ask
‘What brass-hair'd Pict hast thou been sporting with,
‘Where lovers rub their knuckles while they woo?
‘Ye did not always scorn the dark Unknown,
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‘Welcom'd with smiles—aye! and with smiles betray'd.
‘What would ye know of me? more than I know?
‘If all were born of woman, so was I:
‘A Man my sire! this is my country! I
‘Am—what I needs must be! Thou lov'st me not?’—
And with a laugh of horror, pausing here,
Fiercely he shook her. ‘Why should'st thou love me?
‘Fool! I would but have pluck'd a beauteous flower
‘To breathe on it, and blast it. I was born,
‘Unwithering, unpitied, pitiless,
‘To kill whate'er of good I look upon.
‘Methou could'st not have bless'd!—nor shalt thou bless
‘Another!’ From her lip the hue of life
Fled. ‘Wilt thou murder me?’ and on her knees
She sank before him, and look'd up—in vain.
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XII.
He twisted in her sable hair his hand:She fainted. From her neck the snowy lawn
Fell to the ground; her virgin breast was bare;
And on that loveliest breast, with deadliest might,
His dagger's point impressing, thro' the bone
He pierc'd the lungs. Then, as th' autumnal moon,
In plenitude of mournful majesty,
When Night is stillest, veil'd in clouds, displays
Her shaded silver, dim, yet beautiful;
So heav'd the dying virgin's breast, beneath
The rushing life-blood. Ah, she knew it not,
Till, from the bowers of bliss, her spirit saw
A form terrific stamping on her corse;
Still grasp'd his hand her tresses blood-defil'd,
And still he rais'd the steel, and still he struck.
At that dread moment, sorrow pierc'd her soul
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Her aged parents from their dwelling came,
And sought and smote at once their dreadful foe,
And in one instant on their child they died.
Henry Macdonald, distant, heard their cries:
He reach'd, with breathless speed, the maple grove;
He pass'd, but not unseen, the stream beyond.
Glanfillan, snatching from the father's heart
The dagger, with a long, loud, laughing yell,
Sprang o'er the dead, and like another Cain,
Or like the Condor's shadow o'er the deep,
Rush'd on the Caledonian. Stunn'd, the youth
Stood; but instinctively his rapid hand
Met the descending weapon,—grasp'd it fast,—
A struggle stern and still! With his left hand
Glanfillan siez'd his throat. But Henry, huge,
And shoulder'd broad, with iron sinews terse,
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He smote th' unweapon'd miscreant to the earth.
Half-rising, twice he sank: he rose, he stood,
He stagger'd; then, with senses all amaz'd,
Rush'd down the rock, and vanish'd, unpursu'd.
XIII.
The victor paus'd. No triumph-feeling proudSwell'd his young heart. A black and deadly thought,
Big with despair and torture, seiz'd his soul:
Breathless advanc'd he—horror-freez'd, he stopp'd,—
And, reeling, falling, fainted on the dead.
Wan on one knee, with dim, dim eye, he rose.
‘Bride! Bride! and am I widow'd?—Speak to me!
‘Canst thou not speak?’ Alas, she answer'd not!
Still in his hand her lifeless hand he held,
All-shuddering at its coldness; on her face,
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In woe intense, and, oh, how tenderly
He kiss'd the lily on its bed of death!
‘Elizabeth! and is it thus we meet?—
‘Ye, too? Sire! Mother!—Oh, ye hoary hairs,
‘Why is this blood upon ye?—Misery!—
‘The world is empty! and I live.—'Tis come,
‘The bridal hour is come.—Alas, are these
‘My nuptials?’ Soul-subdu'd, he groan'd, and sank;
His pillow was the bosom of his love,
And long his fervid temples panted there.
Alas, she was to him the only flower
That deck'd the field of being! Deadly pale,
And feeble, he arose. he rais'd from earth
The dagger, felt its sharp point, and was still.
‘If it must be, thou, in the hour of need,
‘My dreadful Friend, shalt finish this thy work.’
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O'er the pale dead, in grief that spake not there.
XIV.
Rous'd from their beds, th' affrighted peasants cameThey shook him from his dream of agony.
They dragg'd him, stunn'd, amaz'd, before the Judge,
With all the dreadful evidence of guilt
Upon him. His stain'd hands, his attitude,
The victims, his wild looks, and—more than these,—
That grasped dagger, dropping with warm blood,
Witness'd against him. He stood motionless.
The Judge condemn'd him. Stupifi'd he heard
The fatal sentence. yet one piteous look,
Of strange inquiry, on the crowd he cast—
'Twas fearful!—like the harrow'd cloud, the flash
On broken darkness. All eyes look'd on him—
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They stood in horrid wonder, that a form
Beauteous as his, could lodge a demon's soul!
And no heart pitied him in all that crowd?
None pitied him, the guiltless, the condemn'd?
None pitied him, the desolate? Not one!
Is't true? is't possible? 'Tis certainty!
Horrible certainty! Astonishment
Sunk into grief, grief into dread, and dread
Soon became agony. Lo! as he wept,
He started—at a sound, harsh, tho' suppress'd;
It was not laughter, and it was not speech;—
But 'twas a voice which whoso once had heard
Might not but recognise!—he turn'd, and met
The rancor of Glanfillan's grin of scorn!—
It was the hand of Providence!—That grin,
That fiendish croon, wither'd his intellect!
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He stood in mental ruin! blank and still.
The dire tribunal, the unweeping crowd,
The murderer, and his own tremendous doom,
What were they? dreams? Where are they? Memory,
Like a burnt parchment, was uncharacter'd.
The past, to him, was all anhililate,
To him the dreadful future shall not be;
But to the scaffold they shall bear a shape
Of living Man,—a form idealess,—
Life!—Feeling?—but not Soul! The hand of God
Smote him, in horror, and in mercy, there.
XV.
They rear'd his gibbet where Eliza died,And many a midnight tempest swung his bones.—
Doth the Owl like the taste of Felon's flesh?
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But Conscience can.—A Goblin (so 'twas said,)
Haunted the fatal spot; not a bright form
Of virgin beauty, but a horrid shape
Gloomy and gaunt, that stalk'd with warrior stride,
And mutter'd curses. years had pass'd away:
The cloud, that veil'd the moon, was on the hill:
Along the spectred path, with hurried step,
A swain, belated, came; and as he pass'd
The gibbet, in the pauses of the wind,
He heard the words of agony and prayer.
He fled: but on th' opposing hill, the moon
Came from the cloud: he stood, he look'd, and saw
A dusky figure, at the gibbet's foot,
Writhing, as writhes a sapling in the storm;
And, suddenly, 'twas still. He reach'd his home,
He wak'd the village, and, with others, sought
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Out-stretch'd and pale—self-slaughter'd? so it seem'd!
If not, who might th' Assassin be? and how
Lur'd he his victim hither? and for what
Struck he the blow of death? For on the slain
They found a purse, a ring, and, set in gems,
The picture of a Lady passing fair,
Which this inscription bore, ‘To her soul's Lord
‘His own Eliza.’ In the wound was left
The golden-hilted dagger. Worn his form
To bare anatomy, his raiment rich;
Ghastly the features! and remorse and guilt
Were written there. Even where he died his corpse
Was laid in earth. And let them mix their dust
Together there, the Suicide, and he
Miscall'd the Felon! let the bones, storm-bleach'd,
Drop, one by one, upon th' unhallow'd grave!
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And Night can tell of sadder things than these.
END OF BOOK I.
| Night | |