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Poems

By Alfred Domett
  
  

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NIGHT.
  
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153

NIGHT.

A FRAGMENT.

[_]

(BY THE SAME.)

“—'tis not merely
The human being's pride, that peoples Space
With Life, and mystical Predominance.”
Coleridge's Wallenstein.
The wings of the Night-wind brood
Over the deep Tyrrhene;
The buoyant plains are strewed
With star-beams from between
Yon filmy-pacëd Clouds that travel the serene!
Forth from their dewy prison,
The subtle Mists arisen
Wind o'er the heaving waste of sable waves;
And upon Spirit-wings
Sepulchral whisperings
Float upward from the dark of the untrodden caves.
Formless and undefined,
Move on the silent Mind,

154

Presences from a world invisible—
As upon wood and meadow,
White clouds drop quick shadow
When scattered over heaven at the West wind's will.
Within her own deep cells,
The Human Spirit dwells,
List'ning the weird thoughts that she cannot shun—
Thoughts of Birth and Being
And Death—that mock th' unseeing
And sense-bedimmëd eyes of mortal vision!
Beings of other mould
With her still converse hold,
Filling dew-like the Void etherial—
Converse rarely heard
By the passion-stirred
Soul that enchainëd is, in this material Thrall.
Music—gentle and rare—
Glides on the throbbing air,
As over cloudless Skies the grey moonshine—
Softer than radiant Dreams—
Brighter than fitful gleams
Of transitory joys on hearts that inly pine.
Denizens of Faëry,
Vague and visionary—

155

Children o' th' bright Dreams of the impassioned Eld,
Genii and Gnomes
That people the far Domes
Of star-ensphering Heaven—deep in the Unbeheld—
Beautiful Shapes and dim,—
The vacant air do swim,
Thronging the Chambers of the wan Midnight,—
Tissue of waving cloud
Mantles the bodiless crowd;
The charmëd Soul o'erflows with tremulous Delight.
She wakes from the grave of Sense
Where she hath buried been,
Fraught with Intelligence,
Ardent and pure and keen—
Hearing the erst Unheard—and gazing on th' Unseen!
1832.