Night and the soul A dramatic poem. By J. Stanyan Bigg |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
Scene X.
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| XI. |
| XII. |
 | Night and the soul |  |
Scene X.
The Streets. Night.Alexis.
Oh this eternal roar—this froth and hum;
This troubled tossing in a turbid rush!
Art thou not weary, heaven, to look on it?
Its black, hot, bubbles dash themselves towards thee,
And burst in grimmest night at the attempt.
And ye calm stars—ye stars for ever calm,
Are ye not hoary grown with listening
To these terrestrial groans and thunderings?
Wherefore this flush of life? Rest! Rest, O Earth;
Dance thou no longer in the fields of air;
Bid thy great heart be still! Oh be at peace,
And let thy sons rest with thee, weary one!
Why prolong life till madness supervenes?
Why go careering from the arms of God,
Into the jaws of everlasting night?
Each dash of the great crested waves of life
Carries thee farther from the haven of hope.
Pause where thou art. Thou canst not travel back;
Thou hast been rolling down the steeps of time,
Out, out into the wilderness, far, far
From righteousness and the eternal light.
Rest where thou art! Oh rest, and cease to be,
Since being is a madness and a curse!
Art thou not weary, Time, of thy long tramp,
Thy long downgoings from the thrones of bliss?
Are we not far enough from God and truth,
That thou must still escort us through the glooms,
Into the realms of everlasting dark?
This troubled tossing in a turbid rush!
Art thou not weary, heaven, to look on it?
Its black, hot, bubbles dash themselves towards thee,
And burst in grimmest night at the attempt.
And ye calm stars—ye stars for ever calm,
Are ye not hoary grown with listening
To these terrestrial groans and thunderings?
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Dance thou no longer in the fields of air;
Bid thy great heart be still! Oh be at peace,
And let thy sons rest with thee, weary one!
Why prolong life till madness supervenes?
Why go careering from the arms of God,
Into the jaws of everlasting night?
Each dash of the great crested waves of life
Carries thee farther from the haven of hope.
Pause where thou art. Thou canst not travel back;
Thou hast been rolling down the steeps of time,
Out, out into the wilderness, far, far
From righteousness and the eternal light.
Rest where thou art! Oh rest, and cease to be,
Since being is a madness and a curse!
Art thou not weary, Time, of thy long tramp,
Thy long downgoings from the thrones of bliss?
Are we not far enough from God and truth,
That thou must still escort us through the glooms,
Into the realms of everlasting dark?
Hail death! All hail! Sole monarch of the world!
Lay thy cold hand upon the pulse of life,
And bid its feverish throbbings beat no more.
Sole good—preventative of future crimes,—
Dash the great sand-glass from thy brother Time,
For angels have grown sick of watching it:
Snap all the trembling strings of this great harp,
That heaven no longer hear its dissonance:
Bring thy skull-goblet out, and let it reek
Brimm'd over with a deep, Lethean draught,
For the tired world's parch'd lips, and heavy heart:
Or stretch thy slumberous wand athwart all eyes,
And aching heads, and souls in agony;
And let oppressed and the oppressor sleep,
The tyrant and the slave, for both alike
Are weary and life-sick.
Lay thy cold hand upon the pulse of life,
And bid its feverish throbbings beat no more.
Sole good—preventative of future crimes,—
Dash the great sand-glass from thy brother Time,
For angels have grown sick of watching it:
Snap all the trembling strings of this great harp,
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Bring thy skull-goblet out, and let it reek
Brimm'd over with a deep, Lethean draught,
For the tired world's parch'd lips, and heavy heart:
Or stretch thy slumberous wand athwart all eyes,
And aching heads, and souls in agony;
And let oppressed and the oppressor sleep,
The tyrant and the slave, for both alike
Are weary and life-sick.
For man no more
Works with God, or for God, as once he did.
God builds, and man pulls down. Man builds, and God
Bares His almighty arm, and with the dust
Buries the daring fanes which man has built.
God and His creature are no more at one.
They are at issue; and have different aims;
And work for different ends:—therefore this cry
Of inward agony in the soul of man,—
This writhing underneath the heavy lash,—
This burning thirst for something none hath touch'd,
But which all say the Infinite holds out;
And the sweet peace, and royal blessing, which
The King of kings enstamp'd upon His works
Have gone;—and there is now a crownéd curse,—
A full-robed Monarch of the nether hell,
Sitting black-brow'd upon the souls of men,
And holding them in irons!
Works with God, or for God, as once he did.
God builds, and man pulls down. Man builds, and God
Bares His almighty arm, and with the dust
Buries the daring fanes which man has built.
God and His creature are no more at one.
They are at issue; and have different aims;
And work for different ends:—therefore this cry
Of inward agony in the soul of man,—
This writhing underneath the heavy lash,—
This burning thirst for something none hath touch'd,
But which all say the Infinite holds out;
And the sweet peace, and royal blessing, which
The King of kings enstamp'd upon His works
Have gone;—and there is now a crownéd curse,—
A full-robed Monarch of the nether hell,
Sitting black-brow'd upon the souls of men,
And holding them in irons!
Oh! the groans
Which the pent city sends up from its heart;
The untold agonies; the bitter tears;
The wrongs inflicted, and the tortures borne!
Look on the face of nature;—on the vales,
And on the proud-peak'd hills;—man's monitor
And man have quarrell'd. And the pupil dares
What the great master dared not—to work wrongs!
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The untold agonies; the bitter tears;
The wrongs inflicted, and the tortures borne!
Look on the face of nature;—on the vales,
And on the proud-peak'd hills;—man's monitor
And man have quarrell'd. And the pupil dares
What the great master dared not—to work wrongs!
Lo the wide gulph 'twixt man and nature now.
God said, “Let Nature stand betwixt Myself
And erring Man. And let her be the type,
And representative of good in forms
And laws. Let her be spirit indurate,
And hold out to the soul of him I love,
A portrait and a likeness of his God;
That thus he may behold the good, and love it;
And come at length to imitate in works
That which his soul acknowledges; and take
A faithful impress to his inmost heart
Of all the true and noble.” But alas!
Although the book is here, man reads it not;
Although the prophet speaketh, none will hear;
And nature has become a mute to man.
From the huge city rise up sighs and groans,
Curses and blasphemies, and hideous words,
That make hell tremble towards the lips of man;
While from the world of nature songs ascend,
And all her fields are redolent of love.
A sweet contentment breathes out from the streams,
And from the carolling woods, and wealthy vales;—
While from the happiest heart in this vast throng
Goes up a cry towards heaven,—a wail none hear;
And every sickly smile is but a veil
To mantle o'er contorted agonies,
And paint the features of a hideous want;
Or stifle the harsh cries and dissonance
Of the poor howling wretch that is within.
God said, “Let Nature stand betwixt Myself
And erring Man. And let her be the type,
And representative of good in forms
And laws. Let her be spirit indurate,
And hold out to the soul of him I love,
A portrait and a likeness of his God;
That thus he may behold the good, and love it;
And come at length to imitate in works
That which his soul acknowledges; and take
A faithful impress to his inmost heart
Of all the true and noble.” But alas!
Although the book is here, man reads it not;
Although the prophet speaketh, none will hear;
And nature has become a mute to man.
From the huge city rise up sighs and groans,
Curses and blasphemies, and hideous words,
That make hell tremble towards the lips of man;
While from the world of nature songs ascend,
And all her fields are redolent of love.
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And from the carolling woods, and wealthy vales;—
While from the happiest heart in this vast throng
Goes up a cry towards heaven,—a wail none hear;
And every sickly smile is but a veil
To mantle o'er contorted agonies,
And paint the features of a hideous want;
Or stifle the harsh cries and dissonance
Of the poor howling wretch that is within.
And still the world goes on. Night after night
She hushes up the clamours in her heart,
And journeys onward through the unsinning heavens,
Skirting creation with a ring of gloom.
And stars turn paler as she passes by,
Bearing the million curses on her breast
Which man—that giant incubus—hath wrought;
And through the night, a whispering shudder runs,
And a long tremble is the only track
She leaves behind her as she ploughs the sky,
By which the innocent stars know she has pass'd,
And that they may resume their broken songs:
And, over the dark vortex of her path,
Smile their pale thanks to heaven for purity.
She hushes up the clamours in her heart,
And journeys onward through the unsinning heavens,
Skirting creation with a ring of gloom.
And stars turn paler as she passes by,
Bearing the million curses on her breast
Which man—that giant incubus—hath wrought;
And through the night, a whispering shudder runs,
And a long tremble is the only track
She leaves behind her as she ploughs the sky,
By which the innocent stars know she has pass'd,
And that they may resume their broken songs:
And, over the dark vortex of her path,
Smile their pale thanks to heaven for purity.
And still the world goes on. Morn after morn
Decking herself in her primeval bloom;
For she hath gone to the confessional,
And pour'd her heart out to the listening Night,
And the Dark Priest hath shriven her. Wherefore she
Rises refresh'd and radiant as at first,
Ere the low jar of one slight wrong had come
And flutter'd, light as rose-leaf, to her heart:—
Rises a priestess once again to God,
Prepared to listen patiently all day
To the recital of a tale of woes,
Old as the fall of man; and then go off—
Involuntary sinner as she is—
Heart-sick and weary, to her old friend Night;
Saying unto herself, “There is a God,
Or every morn were a new miracle!”
There is a God! Ay, or the universe
Had thunder'd its anathemas to man,
For its laws broken, and its lessons scorn'd;
And all the spheres that tremble at the glance
Of men—the wallowing demigods of earth—
Had cried aloud for vengeance; clapp'd their hands
To see the end of such enormities!
There is a God! Ay, or the ancient world,
O'erburthen'd with such overwhelming crimes,
Had whirl'd off madly into outer space,
To hide her shame in ever-deepening glooms;
Or her great heart had come in twain, and Night
Had shown a skeleton world unto the stars.
Decking herself in her primeval bloom;
For she hath gone to the confessional,
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And the Dark Priest hath shriven her. Wherefore she
Rises refresh'd and radiant as at first,
Ere the low jar of one slight wrong had come
And flutter'd, light as rose-leaf, to her heart:—
Rises a priestess once again to God,
Prepared to listen patiently all day
To the recital of a tale of woes,
Old as the fall of man; and then go off—
Involuntary sinner as she is—
Heart-sick and weary, to her old friend Night;
Saying unto herself, “There is a God,
Or every morn were a new miracle!”
There is a God! Ay, or the universe
Had thunder'd its anathemas to man,
For its laws broken, and its lessons scorn'd;
And all the spheres that tremble at the glance
Of men—the wallowing demigods of earth—
Had cried aloud for vengeance; clapp'd their hands
To see the end of such enormities!
There is a God! Ay, or the ancient world,
O'erburthen'd with such overwhelming crimes,
Had whirl'd off madly into outer space,
To hide her shame in ever-deepening glooms;
Or her great heart had come in twain, and Night
Had shown a skeleton world unto the stars.
There is a God! And therefore evil deeds
Work not such lasting evil as they might,
But are arrested by the Infinite hand
Ere their fell purpose is develop'd out
And woven into sunbeams. Therefore wrongs
Are transient; and the wickedness which strives
To mar the good in others, blasts itself;
And blessings jostle curses out of sight.
Man's evil deeds slide from his evil heart
Into the hand of God; Who straightway turns
The pale ghost of a black and buried crime
Into a living joy, to take its place
Amid the wide economy of things—
Turning a thunder-rifted front to him
Who call'd it into being evermore—
But wearing a bright smile to all beside.
The keen, hell-pointed spear that should have pierced
Into the future, with its poison'd edge,
God bendeth, till its glittering points transfix
The impious soul that would have hurl'd it forth.
Man works his will, and willeth what he works;
God governs both; and never gives the reins
Of his great chariot to another's hands;—
Therefore the hissing serpent made to coil
Round unborn hearts, and ages yet unborn,
And spill its fetid venom on their souls,
Lives but to sting the hand that cherish'd it,
Ere it is snatch'd away for other aims,
And then comes back again unto the world
A knotted wreath of roses. Evil dies.
It carries death in all its bloated veins,
Till it is startled into good by Him
Who ruleth times and spaces with a nod.
Man claims the present: God the future claims.
Therefore the soul that in malignancy,
With deep malevolence and hellish rites,
Conjures, from unnamed regions of the night,
The grim form of a cavern-eyed despair
To point lank-handed at the coming times,
And mock the ages as they travel up
Over the edges of eternity,—
To be an everlasting blur and blight,—
A dark, perpetual sneer at all things good,—
And a still grinning curse on all things bright;—
The man who spends his energies for this,
Shall find his purpose thwarted, though the world
In his own time goes shuddering past the shape—
The hideous symbol of an After-Doom—
And his own soul smiles inly at its power;
And the gaunt hand points at the future still,
When he is call'd upon to lay him down,
And fold him in the cerements of death;
Still shall his aim be thwarted: for the hand
Of the great God shall swoop upon the arm
Till the grim finger points but at his grave;
And the still standing curse he would have left
To curdle the young blood of after-times
Shall haunt him like a hideous memory—
At once his memoir and his epitaph!
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But are arrested by the Infinite hand
Ere their fell purpose is develop'd out
And woven into sunbeams. Therefore wrongs
Are transient; and the wickedness which strives
To mar the good in others, blasts itself;
And blessings jostle curses out of sight.
Man's evil deeds slide from his evil heart
Into the hand of God; Who straightway turns
The pale ghost of a black and buried crime
Into a living joy, to take its place
Amid the wide economy of things—
Turning a thunder-rifted front to him
Who call'd it into being evermore—
But wearing a bright smile to all beside.
The keen, hell-pointed spear that should have pierced
Into the future, with its poison'd edge,
God bendeth, till its glittering points transfix
The impious soul that would have hurl'd it forth.
Man works his will, and willeth what he works;
God governs both; and never gives the reins
Of his great chariot to another's hands;—
Therefore the hissing serpent made to coil
Round unborn hearts, and ages yet unborn,
And spill its fetid venom on their souls,
Lives but to sting the hand that cherish'd it,
Ere it is snatch'd away for other aims,
And then comes back again unto the world
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It carries death in all its bloated veins,
Till it is startled into good by Him
Who ruleth times and spaces with a nod.
Man claims the present: God the future claims.
Therefore the soul that in malignancy,
With deep malevolence and hellish rites,
Conjures, from unnamed regions of the night,
The grim form of a cavern-eyed despair
To point lank-handed at the coming times,
And mock the ages as they travel up
Over the edges of eternity,—
To be an everlasting blur and blight,—
A dark, perpetual sneer at all things good,—
And a still grinning curse on all things bright;—
The man who spends his energies for this,
Shall find his purpose thwarted, though the world
In his own time goes shuddering past the shape—
The hideous symbol of an After-Doom—
And his own soul smiles inly at its power;
And the gaunt hand points at the future still,
When he is call'd upon to lay him down,
And fold him in the cerements of death;
Still shall his aim be thwarted: for the hand
Of the great God shall swoop upon the arm
Till the grim finger points but at his grave;
And the still standing curse he would have left
To curdle the young blood of after-times
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At once his memoir and his epitaph!
Thus is it ever; God repairs the wrongs
Which man is ever working in the world.
The dim old past and future dwell with Him
In earth or heaven, like rich purpureal blots
Blurr'd into beauty by a master's hand.
Whate'er man touches he obscures, like clouds
The unsuspecting gladness of the moon.
These are beyond his reach, and therefore fair.
Only the Present, with its wintry face,
Its keen, cold, jaggéd icicles is his;
Therefore its dark repellancy and glooms.
The Present 'twixt the Past and Future stands
Like a black night between two sunny days:
While from the sweet Twin Sisters—the fair maids
Who wear supernal glories on their brows—
Come, through the sweltering drizzles of the night,
Deep gushes of sweet song; low melodies,
And fragments of the talk of spirit-land—
Hints of unfathom'd meaning to the soul,
And to the heart July-like gorgeousness;
While, from the night itself, the weltering night,
The poor sad Present, the black-clouded Now,
Reek out the sound of breaking waves, the moan
Of cold winds coming from the bleachéd North,
And the sharp whistling made by uptoss'd arms,
Gleaming a moment in the shuddering dark,
Ere they go down into the deeps for aye!
Man's life is dwindling into nullity,
Is shrinking up like a collapsed balloon,
Is sinking into puny helplessness,
Lopp'd of its grand aspirings, its bright hopes.
We have got eyes, and hands, and ears, and tongues,
And we must talk and listen, touch and taste.
We must take care of this. And above all
We must get money, though heaven thunders “No!”
And where is the poor soul this weary while?
“Oh, sweep the avenues,” say we, “make them clean,
And let the lawn be shaven; let the house
Show a great frontage to the gaping times,
And let it tower up with its battlements,
Courting the skies in self-complacency;
Let the outside impose upon the sense,
Saying unto the world, ‘the King's at home;’”
But as for the crown'd monarch, there within,
Why let him tend the fire, or pare his nails!
Let him and the old cobwebs quite alone.
Ensconced in that dark corner of the house
He is quite harmless, and may sit in state
With midnight dreams for Courtiers, and the hours
Of heavy sleep for Ushers of the Rod.
Which man is ever working in the world.
The dim old past and future dwell with Him
In earth or heaven, like rich purpureal blots
Blurr'd into beauty by a master's hand.
Whate'er man touches he obscures, like clouds
The unsuspecting gladness of the moon.
These are beyond his reach, and therefore fair.
Only the Present, with its wintry face,
Its keen, cold, jaggéd icicles is his;
Therefore its dark repellancy and glooms.
The Present 'twixt the Past and Future stands
Like a black night between two sunny days:
While from the sweet Twin Sisters—the fair maids
Who wear supernal glories on their brows—
Come, through the sweltering drizzles of the night,
Deep gushes of sweet song; low melodies,
And fragments of the talk of spirit-land—
Hints of unfathom'd meaning to the soul,
And to the heart July-like gorgeousness;
While, from the night itself, the weltering night,
The poor sad Present, the black-clouded Now,
Reek out the sound of breaking waves, the moan
Of cold winds coming from the bleachéd North,
And the sharp whistling made by uptoss'd arms,
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Ere they go down into the deeps for aye!
Man's life is dwindling into nullity,
Is shrinking up like a collapsed balloon,
Is sinking into puny helplessness,
Lopp'd of its grand aspirings, its bright hopes.
We have got eyes, and hands, and ears, and tongues,
And we must talk and listen, touch and taste.
We must take care of this. And above all
We must get money, though heaven thunders “No!”
And where is the poor soul this weary while?
“Oh, sweep the avenues,” say we, “make them clean,
And let the lawn be shaven; let the house
Show a great frontage to the gaping times,
And let it tower up with its battlements,
Courting the skies in self-complacency;
Let the outside impose upon the sense,
Saying unto the world, ‘the King's at home;’”
But as for the crown'd monarch, there within,
Why let him tend the fire, or pare his nails!
Let him and the old cobwebs quite alone.
Ensconced in that dark corner of the house
He is quite harmless, and may sit in state
With midnight dreams for Courtiers, and the hours
Of heavy sleep for Ushers of the Rod.
And yet great hearts are simmering in the world;
And now and then, through the dun heaven of life,
Great thoughts come reeling from the feast of gods,
Like drunken stars, staggering among the clouds.—
Thoughts of great bards, that come upon our souls
Like wildered angels who have lost their way,
And long to flutter back again to God.
Bright aspirations rush up from the throngs
Like rockets, leaving a long trail of light.
Earth is not quite dissever'd yet from heaven,
But heaves with sudden shocks, electric thrills,
When the transparent rods of truth are dropt
Upon her throbbing veins, and surcharged heart.
And now and then, through the dun heaven of life,
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Like drunken stars, staggering among the clouds.—
Thoughts of great bards, that come upon our souls
Like wildered angels who have lost their way,
And long to flutter back again to God.
Bright aspirations rush up from the throngs
Like rockets, leaving a long trail of light.
Earth is not quite dissever'd yet from heaven,
But heaves with sudden shocks, electric thrills,
When the transparent rods of truth are dropt
Upon her throbbing veins, and surcharged heart.
Oh, to be one of these!—the mighty bards
Who touch the soul to splendour, and who string
Humanity like harps in sweetest tune
For God to play on as he passes by!
The life of all that is, pulses and throbs
Like subterranean music in their hearts
And the great universe streams through their souls
Like a wide river of perpetual light,
While stars lie fretting on the dark, sleek floor.
Oh, to be one of these!
[Ferdinand coming up unperceived by Alexis.
Who touch the soul to splendour, and who string
Humanity like harps in sweetest tune
For God to play on as he passes by!
The life of all that is, pulses and throbs
Like subterranean music in their hearts
And the great universe streams through their souls
Like a wide river of perpetual light,
While stars lie fretting on the dark, sleek floor.
Oh, to be one of these!
Well, and why not?
Hast thou flung up thy old prerogatives,
Burnt all thy title-deeds and rights to fame,
Gambled away thy fine estates in song
And made thyself a beggar?
Hast thou flung up thy old prerogatives,
Burnt all thy title-deeds and rights to fame,
Gambled away thy fine estates in song
And made thyself a beggar?
Alexis.
Ferdinand!
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Ay, Ferdinand, Alexis; come again
To take thee back unto thyself, my friend,
Ye will be strangers by this time I think!
Alexis.
Are we not always strangers to ourselves,
And strangers to each other? Evermore
We are insphered, like stars within ourselves,
And though we light each other in the dark,
There is no contact, no escape from self.
We are but torches gleaming here and there
Whose flames may never mingle. Here within
Is this self-conscious Me, and there without
Are others like me, who are yet unlike.
I am a world unto myself, and move
In my own orbit, whence I cannot stray!
And all without are distant stars to me,—
Between us wide-jaw'd darkness, hungry night!
Ferdinand.
I know not. There are holy laws which bind
The planets of one family in one.
Systems and suns are link'd together thus,
And all to God. It may be that one pulse
Sent from his central heart, runs through the whole,
Threading the chasms with sympathies.
Alexis.
It may.
Would I could say it is.
Ferdinand.
Ah, thou art changed!
Alexis.
Changed? Ay! Changed, and still changeable, good friend!
My soul sloughs herself once a day at least.
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And come a stranger to the world again.
'Tis an old story that we never see
The self-same picture twice!
Ferdinand.
And art thou changed,
To all who love thee—to thy friends, Alexis?
Alexis.
Friends, Ferdinand? I have no friends—want none!
Ferdinand.
No love—no Flora,—sitting like the moon
In her own pallid sorrow through the night,
And weeping that her lover never comes?
Alexis
(pausing, and pressing his hands to his head).
My soul,
Like a great monster, has devour'd my heart,
And now in hunger preys upon itself.
I have no faith in aught, no love, no hope.
My glory has gone from me; and I stand,
Like Samson underneath the reeling house,
With nothing but the thundering walls, and shrieks
To bear me company—I long for death!
Ferdinand.
All soul? A very novel-heroine!
Alexis.
Last night I dreamt the universe was mad;
And that the sun its Cyclopean eye
Roll'd glaring like a maniac's in the heavens;
And moons and comets, link'd together, scream'd
Like bands of witches at their carnivals,
And stream'd like wandering hell along the sky;
And that the awful stars, through the red light,
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Throbbing and chilling with intensest hate,
While through the whole a nameless horror ran;
And worlds dropp'd from their place i' the shuddering,
Like leaves of Autumn, when a mighty wind
Makes the trees shiver through their thickest robes:
Great spheres crack'd in the midst, and belch'd out flame,
And sputtering fires went crackling over heaven;
And space yawn'd blazing stars; and Time shriek'd out
That hungry fire was eating everything!
And scorchéd fiends, down in the nether hell,
Cried out, “The universe is mad—is mad!”
And the great Thing in its convulsions flung
System on system, till the cauldron boil'd—
(Space was the cauldron, and all hell the fire,)
And every giant limb o' the universe
Dilated and collapsed, till it grew wan,
And I could see its naked ribs gleam out,
Beating like panting fire,—and I awoke.
'Twas not all dream;—such is the world to me!
Ferdinand.
Why, this is terrible! These haggard thoughts
Are breeding madness in thy heart and brain,
Making a moonlit charnel of thy soul.
Come, then, and lave thee in the wells of love,
Ere these hell-grimings sink beneath the skin.
Alexis.
Too late! I tell thee it is all too late!
I must pass through this vigil all alone.
I have flung down my gauntlet to the world,
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And I am crush'd. If ever I should rise,
I will remember you, my friends! my friends! [A long silence, during which they walk on.
'Tis the old woe that rankles in my heart.
I listen'd to the Siren Mysteries
Until they master'd me—and I am lost!
Great bars of purple sunset hem me in
And shut me out from God; the tawdry Day
Puts on her flaunting baubles all in vain;
And the blue sky hangs o'er me like my fate.
A cruel purpose lashes the white sides
Of the stark universe. My faith is gone,
And human life to me seems purposeless,
Godless and lawless, as a bandit's talk.
Night brings to me no rest. My dreams are wild
As the lank hair of ancient prophetess
Streaming in frenzy on the midnight wind;
And my poor soul that once embower'd great thoughts,
Noble ambitions, lofty aims, pure hopes,
Is turn'd into a hospital by day
Where madness harbours from the jeers of men;
And then at night, when all the world is still,
A troop of jabbering demons travel through,
Crying “There is no good, no evil, and no law,
No right or wrong, no Hell, no Heaven, no God,
Nothing but thee and orderless decay!”
And there,—black,—coiling in extremest space,
135
To take the flying worlds in at a gulp!
I see them go careering towards it still,
Like young birds wheeling round a rattlesnake;
And writhe and struggle, like a drowning man,
Striving to warn them, finding I am dumb!
Ferdinand.
Nightmare, my friend—and heavy suppers—hey?
| Night and the soul | |