Nugae Modernae Morning thoughts, and midnight musings: consisting of casual reflections, egotisms, &c. In prose and verse. By Thomas Park |
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A MIDNIGHT MUSING. |
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116
A MIDNIGHT MUSING.
June 7, 1818.
Most have some cause for midnight-moan,
Most have some secret anguish known,
And each most piteous deems his own,
In this wide waste of sorrow;
Hence may it be, that mine appears
So passing sad,—while sighs and tears
Give hastening pace to downward years;
Wings I from Grief do borrow.
Most have some secret anguish known,
And each most piteous deems his own,
In this wide waste of sorrow;
Hence may it be, that mine appears
So passing sad,—while sighs and tears
Give hastening pace to downward years;
Wings I from Grief do borrow.
Yet sure my woe, should I impart
Its source to any christian-heart,
Would thrill it with a keener smart
Than it was wont to nourish:
Ah! should it reach some rival-grief,
May it to such yield short relief,
To think its own is not the chief
Of soils, where sorrows flourish.
Its source to any christian-heart,
Would thrill it with a keener smart
Than it was wont to nourish:
Ah! should it reach some rival-grief,
May it to such yield short relief,
To think its own is not the chief
Of soils, where sorrows flourish.
117
In one short hour (O treasur'd wife!)
I lost the joy of half my life,
The healing cure for all the strife
Which worldly cares could cluster.
Yes: in one brief and baleful hour
Death seem'd to glutton on his power,
And cropt my prime domestic flower,
Even in its loveliest lustre.
I lost the joy of half my life,
The healing cure for all the strife
Which worldly cares could cluster.
Yes: in one brief and baleful hour
Death seem'd to glutton on his power,
And cropt my prime domestic flower,
Even in its loveliest lustre.
Five years this night are past and gone
Since first I breathed a widower's moan,—
Yet I do put fresh mourning on
For thee, and one thou barest;
A daughter, ev'n than thee more mild,
Our most most lov'd, most gifted child,
Whom we our angel-offspring styl'd,
Of all thy race the rarest.
Since first I breathed a widower's moan,—
Yet I do put fresh mourning on
For thee, and one thou barest;
A daughter, ev'n than thee more mild,
Our most most lov'd, most gifted child,
Whom we our angel-offspring styl'd,
Of all thy race the rarest.
118
Like oil on seas, her voice could calm,
Her words could every passion charm,
Her spirit seem'd ethereal balm,
Her heart-pulse throbb'd with love;
She needed but to look, not speak,
It was a look so mild, so meek,
None would a verier surety seek
Unction was given her from above.
Her words could every passion charm,
Her spirit seem'd ethereal balm,
Her heart-pulse throbb'd with love;
She needed but to look, not speak,
It was a look so mild, so meek,
None would a verier surety seek
Unction was given her from above.
Pure spirit! what to thee I owe
This world can never never know—
But that revealing day will show,
When every thought's laid open:
My more than child, my almost guide,
My filial boast, (I fear, my pride)
We were in very soul allied,—
And now—must it be spoken?—
This world can never never know—
But that revealing day will show,
When every thought's laid open:
My more than child, my almost guide,
My filial boast, (I fear, my pride)
We were in very soul allied,—
And now—must it be spoken?—
119
Thou hardly know'st thy much-lov'd sire:
With wandering glance those eyes retire,
Which us'd to beam with holy fire,
Such as God's Spirit granted
To those, a heavenly-favour'd few,
Who from the living fountain drew
Sion's and Hermon's sacred dew,
Who for Immanuel panted.
With wandering glance those eyes retire,
Which us'd to beam with holy fire,
Such as God's Spirit granted
To those, a heavenly-favour'd few,
Who from the living fountain drew
Sion's and Hermon's sacred dew,
Who for Immanuel panted.
I do not dare to reason, Lord,
About thy Will—but clasp thy Word,
And pray Thou still may'st grace afford,
To give me strength to bear it!
I bow to earth, until be past
This stifling cloud, this samiel-blast,—
It will not, cannot always last;
Thou, Sun of Peace! must clear it.
About thy Will—but clasp thy Word,
And pray Thou still may'st grace afford,
To give me strength to bear it!
I bow to earth, until be past
This stifling cloud, this samiel-blast,—
It will not, cannot always last;
Thou, Sun of Peace! must clear it.
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