Poems descriptive, dramatic, legendary and contemplative

Midnight!—and I am watching with the stars!
Can ye not let me slumber for a while,
Ye roving thoughts—and thou, unquiet mood,
Still active, wandering through infinity,
All times and nations, changes, destinies,
With sleepless soul, and discontented gaze,
Finding no place of rest? Can ye not spare,
To the o'erwearied votary, one pause
From the sad spirit's vigil? Must he still

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Climb the precipitous height, and, with no guide
Save the sad watchers brooding in the heavens,
And the stern instinct, into which resolved,
Ye do compel the labor, hurry him on,
Weary, and with no recompense, to gain
The solitary chaplet of sad flowers,
But little valued, which a stranger hand,—
When I am dead, and those who knew me once
Miss me no longer from the crowded way,—
Will place, perchance, upon my humble grave?

This is the trophy, and for this I toil!—
Yet am I proud among my fellow-men,
And strive with him whose aim is greatly bent
For the sole column;—and with marvellous dread
Shrink from each middle perch of eminence.
And, in my chamber, when the world is still,
And those who were most ready in the strife,
Have sunk to sweet repose,—wakeful, I ask,
Doth my ambition, then, but strive for this
Poor honor,—which no present hand bestows,
And the far future, like some tardy steed,
Brings, when too late, and only brings in vain?
And is it such poor victory which now
Keeps me from slumber—makes the violent pulse,
And the full veins upon my forehead, swell
With aimless tumult, while the unsettled heart,
Now bounding with keen hope, desponding now,
Yearns for some other state, some wider range
For action, and some truer sympathy?
Is it for this, I ask, ye gentler sprites
Which tend upon the discontented soul,
That the still night, with its sad, twiring stars,
Still rises on my gaze, while all besides

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Are, in the dwellings of sweet dreams, at rest;
And even the bird that, pendent from my roof,
Murmured, erewhile, at intervals, his song
In wandering catches, wild, and more than sweet,
Hath sought his cover in the mazy wood?

My feeling and my reason are not one,
They do rebuke each other. With the one
The world is full of glowing images,
And life abounds in honors, and strong hearts
Bend to the lofty sway, and gentle eyes
Look forth a pure encouragement, more dear,
And it may be, though not so thought by men,
More full of worth and value than the rest.
'Tis thus that fancy, ever won with dreams,
Portrays its triumphs—until wisdom comes,
And with stern accents and unbending brow,
Experience at her side, proclaims them all
Shallow and profitless—things far beneath
The sober and strong estimate of thought.

I fear me she is true. I have not lived
Untaught by my own being, and the toil,
The battle for existence. Yet, I feel
There is a victory beyond reason's scope,
And out of her domain. The spirit feels
Its urgent nature, which, though dash'd with care,
Knows still a medicine that “physics pain”—
A golden draught, more potent than of old
The alchemist through years of toil pursued,
Wearing out life in idle search of that
Which should preserve it. If I must look forth,
Watching yon sad but lustrous galaxy,
Counting its many and divided lights,

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Dispatching thought on missions unto them,
And lingering for response,—I shall not fear,
Thus, in the eye of heaven, to urge my claim
To those same thick-sown fields of glorious life,
My heritage—on which my spirit turns
With a most natural instinct, which approves
Its right, and justifies its high demand—
Our future dwelling-place, to which my soul,
Like one unjustly disinherited,
Still looks, though vain, and cannot cease to look.

University of Virginia Library

THE UNQUIET SPIRIT.