University of Virginia Library

How still is this night's solitude—how calm
All the dim nature round! I hear no voice
From out this populous city—see no light
Beckoning from well-known dwelling of my youth
To some gay hearth and laughing company.
Alone among the stranger, I am sad,
Seeking familiar forms I may not find,
And sorrowing in that bondage of the clay
That checks the spirit's flight to its own home,
Beyond the heaving waters. There, my child
Plays in the summer flowers, that, while they glow,
Have lurking death beneath them. Pestilence
Walks thither in the noonday; and the airs,
Balm breathing, from the bosom of the night,
Are tainted with the fever gale that reeks
From the rank gardens and o'erteeming fields,
That yield the proud man plenty. God of Heaven,
Be with that child in mercy. Guard her well,
With thy o'erwatchful blessings. Shield her breast
From sudden night-winds;—from her red lips drive
The hovering fever. Be thy pitying love
Before her innocent bosom, that, no more,
Her father's arm may shield—his watchful care
Protect by human providence—his love
Die for, if such the sudden need, when wrong
Strikes at the imploring trembler, which it does
When peril seems least present. Here, afar,
My knees are bent to thee—my proud heart sinks
In prayer,—the big tears gather in my eyes,
And, with a deep humility that feels
Its weakness, thinking on that child of love,
My soul implores thy blessings on her head,
In smiles that bring her body health—her mind
Ripeness and purity, that she may bloom,
Worthy of life and happiness and thee.

The city is around me, but its strifes
Are hush'd to silence. What a god is sleep,
That can so chain the faculties of men,
The fearful moods, the restless energies,
So busy and so turbulent a while
Some three hours past, and now so sternly still,
It seems some eastern city of the dead!

Where is the artisan, whose hammer clink'd
On the fire-darting anvil through the day?—
The pedler, who was vaunting o'er his wares,
His worldly wealth about him—rich withal?
The tradesman, conning o'er his daily sales
With eager lip, and eye upon the watch,
Not to be over-bargain'd?—where the youth,
Anxious for honor and distinction, won
By noisy declamation in the crowd
About the forum?—all are sunk in sleep!
Sleep, the subduer of the sick man's pulse,
Bringer of pleasant dreams and airy thoughts,
That while away the fever'd toils of earth,
And give a bounding impulse to the blood,
Distemper'd by the noise-oppresséd brain!
Thou second part of life, that art a death,
Refitting for a newer start in life,
And nerving with a freshness all but me!

In vain I look upon the pensive night,
That hangs her silver crescent in the sky,
Gather'd on fleecy folds, that edge the blue
Of her vast, wild, pavilion'd canopy,
And keeps it, as a warrior doth his shield,
Unstain'd by dark device, or mortal dint,
And pure and spotless as a vestal's heart,
Upon the hour she gives herself to God!
There is no breath to waken up the leaf
That sits within my window—all is still—
And how oppressive grows that stillness now!
I cannot sleep. A spirit at my side,
Though, with the day's fatigue, my form is faint,
Keeps me from slumber. Thought, undying thought,
That dost pervade life's farthest wilderness,
Why may I not repose with those who take
These grateful slumbers? Wherefore, in my soul,
Still wouldst thou sound the silvery cord that trills
With hope of life—the sensible, true life
Of immortality and consciousness,
That is forever present to my dreams,
And bears me with a visible impulse on,
Spite of the rough adventure of the time,
The jostle of far-sighted emulation,
To look beyond myself, and fondly dare
Converse with high intelligence, and powers
Beyond man's frail existence!

Do the stars
Shine forth with fuller loveliness to me,
That thus I wake to watch them? Is the moon
Peculiar in her gaze to-night?—her smile
Sleeps on my very couch, and by my side—
And in the imperfect brightness of her glance,
Fantastic forms and shadows from her light
Glide through the chamber, and, with fancy's aid,
Grow human, and solicit me to speech.
And now, a silvery train is drawn afar,
Like a faint thread upon the utmost verge
Of the dun sky—as if it would unite
The earth I wake on, and the heaven I watch.
It is the star of my nativity—
What wonder I should wake to watch it then,
With a deep fixedness—a strong desire
To gather, from its seeming, all my hope—
Ambition's hope—far fitter gods than men—
Which lives unto the peril of the life
That is my mortal being—wearing away,
Consuming as a night-lamp, dim, untrimm'd,
The frame and sinews of the nerveless form
The forest boor had laugh'd at.—Lo! afar
It shoots along, and sheds in its lone flight,
A rich and tremulous lustre. Doth it wake,
In sympathy with me, alone among
Its starry train of rich intelligences,
As I, among my fellows of the earth—
Restless alike?—and should ambition dwell
So high above the mortal part of life?
Yet was it said, ere this, in ancient time,
When gods were on the earth, in guise of men,
And men, in action, rivall'd the high gods,
That 'twas the quality of heaven, and so
Became transmitted to the humbler race,
With whom they lightly mingled; and to whom
They gave such sad inheritance of pride—
High reaching, strong desire and boundless want,
Love of far rule, undying thirst of praise,
And power that never sleeps, but seeks for sway
Through peril, and foul circumstance and blood—
Heedless that pain and death are in the gift,
Though coupled with high honor!—fatal gift—
That saps the springs of life, of love, of peace,
Eats out the heart with a concealéd fire,
And leaves the desolate frame, self-blasted, thus,
By its own raging spirit overthrown,
Even on the summit of its towering hopes,
The vulture-tortured Titan on his rock!
Oh! what is fame, that I should darken youth—
The fresh attire of morning—the gay sun
Of my young destiny, that shone so fair—
With watching through the night—the sweet, long night
That fills my eyes with gentle drops to see—
Sweet though they flow from out the fount of tears,
Upon my heart, like dews upon the flower
In Hermon's valley! Doth to it belong,
Acknowledgment 'mong men, in words, whose tone,
Like music, offers to the moody soul,
Whose watchfulness is madness?—No, alas!—
Nor Time himself shall evermore retrieve
The life that I have lost! Yet, be this told,
In after years, when at my fireside blaze,
No chair shall be in waiting for my form,
No eye to smile at my unlook'd approach,
No welcome mine;—and from the mossy stone,
The imperfect characters which love hath traced,
Are trodden out by time—though he hath fail'd
To gain the planet's burning eminence,
With the high fires that he so oft hath watch'd,
The spirit was within him, and he strove,
Unqualified by base desire or deed,
Most nobly, though perchance he reach'd it not.