The poetical works of William Motherwell With memoir. By James M'Conechy. Third edition, greatly enlarged |
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THE MIDNIGHT LAMP. |
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 | The poetical works of William Motherwell |  |
223
THE MIDNIGHT LAMP.
Thou pale and sickly lamp,
Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp,
Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour,
And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er
This precious volume of forgotten lore
My eyes devour.
Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while
Soon will the morning's ruddy smile
Peep through the casement, like a well-known guest,
And give thee needful rest.
Now glimmering like the glow-worm of the swamp,
Shine on, I pray thee, for another hour,
And shed thy wan and feeble lustre o'er
This precious volume of forgotten lore
My eyes devour.
Shine on, I pray thee, but some little while
Soon will the morning's ruddy smile
Peep through the casement, like a well-known guest,
And give thee needful rest.
Even now the grey owl seeks his nest;
And in the farm-yards, lusty cocks begin
To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din,
Cheer on the lagging morn.
Right soon the careful churle will go
To view his ripening corn;
And up, and up, in a merry row,
A thousand many-voiced birds will spring,
And in one general chorus sing
Their matins to the skies.
And in the farm-yards, lusty cocks begin
To flap their wings, and, with a rousing din,
Cheer on the lagging morn.
Right soon the careful churle will go
To view his ripening corn;
And up, and up, in a merry row,
A thousand many-voiced birds will spring,
And in one general chorus sing
Their matins to the skies.
224
Then live some little while, poor sickening light,
And glad my aching eyes;
Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright
Has seen thy exequies.
Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one,
Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart,
Doth shape his leave.
I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone.
Pity it is that in this mood we part.
And glad my aching eyes;
Thou wilt not die until the morrow bright
Has seen thy exequies.
Thou wilt not quit me like a thankless one,
Who, when grief closes with the fainting heart,
Doth shape his leave.
I pray thee tarry, then. Alas! thou'rt gone.
Pity it is that in this mood we part.
| The poetical works of William Motherwell | |