[Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West with biographical and critical notices |
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NOCTES DIVINORUM. |
 | [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West |  |
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NOCTES DIVINORUM.
The sky is black: the earth is cold:
The laboring moon gives little light:
Wild gusts in ghostly tones unfold
The secrets of the deep, dread night.
And glimmering round and round me, glide
Weird fancies of the midnight born,
Close-linked with shadowy sprites that ride
The dusky hours of eve and morn.
The laboring moon gives little light:
Wild gusts in ghostly tones unfold
The secrets of the deep, dread night.
And glimmering round and round me, glide
Weird fancies of the midnight born,
Close-linked with shadowy sprites that ride
The dusky hours of eve and morn.
Gaunt images, that haunt the sight,
Of sin and crime, and want and woe,
Have been my guests for hours to-night,
And still are passing to and fro.
Ah, wellaway! and so they may!
They do not tell the lie of life;
Night oft is truer than the day;
Peace often falser far than strife.
Of sin and crime, and want and woe,
Have been my guests for hours to-night,
And still are passing to and fro.
Ah, wellaway! and so they may!
They do not tell the lie of life;
Night oft is truer than the day;
Peace often falser far than strife.
A year goes out: a year comes in:
How swiftly and how still they flee!
What mission had the year that's been?
What mission hath the year to be?
Oh, brother man! look wisely back,
Along the far and fading days,
And closely scan the crowded track
On which the light of memory plays.
How swiftly and how still they flee!
What mission had the year that's been?
What mission hath the year to be?
Oh, brother man! look wisely back,
Along the far and fading days,
And closely scan the crowded track
On which the light of memory plays.
The friend with whom you took your wine
A year ago—where is he now?
The child you almost thought divine,
Such beauty robed its shining brow—
The wife upon whose pillowing breast
Misleading doubts and carking care
Were ever gently lulled to rest—
Where are they now, my brother, where?
A year ago—where is he now?
The child you almost thought divine,
Such beauty robed its shining brow—
The wife upon whose pillowing breast
Misleading doubts and carking care
Were ever gently lulled to rest—
Where are they now, my brother, where?
In vain you start, and look around!
In vain the involuntary call!
The graveyard has an added mound
For wife, or child, or friend—or all.
And downward to the dust with them,
How many garnered hopes have gone!
Yet they were those ye thought to stem
The tide of time with, pressing on.
In vain the involuntary call!
The graveyard has an added mound
For wife, or child, or friend—or all.
And downward to the dust with them,
How many garnered hopes have gone!
Yet they were those ye thought to stem
The tide of time with, pressing on.
Ah! Hope is such a flattering cheat,
We scarce can choose but him believe!
We see and feel his bold deceit,
Yet trust him still, to still deceive.
Despair is truer far than he!
Though dark and pitiless its form,
It never bids us look, and see
The sunshine, when it brings the storm.
We scarce can choose but him believe!
We see and feel his bold deceit,
Yet trust him still, to still deceive.
Despair is truer far than he!
Though dark and pitiless its form,
It never bids us look, and see
The sunshine, when it brings the storm.
Farewell! old year: yet by your bier
I linger, if I will or no:
For sorrow tends to link as friends
Those who had hardly else been so.
How often back, along the track
Which you and I have wearily traced,
My bleeding heart will sadly start
To view again that desert waste!
I linger, if I will or no:
For sorrow tends to link as friends
Those who had hardly else been so.
How often back, along the track
Which you and I have wearily traced,
My bleeding heart will sadly start
To view again that desert waste!
Aha! old year, you've brought the tear,
In spite of all I thought or said:
I did not know one still could flow,
So many you have made me shed.
You're stiff and stark: you're gone!” ... 'Tis dark,
Here where I sit and sigh alone.
But wipe the eye, and check the sigh:
What's he, who hath not sorrow known?
In spite of all I thought or said:
I did not know one still could flow,
So many you have made me shed.
You're stiff and stark: you're gone!” ... 'Tis dark,
Here where I sit and sigh alone.
But wipe the eye, and check the sigh:
What's he, who hath not sorrow known?
| [Poems by Gallagher in] The poets and poetry of the West | |