Part 18 (1/2)

Another day in sable vesture clad, All drear with new blown pleasures blighted, Comes blindly groping through the twilight sad, As one in moonless mists benighted.

O! Day unhappy! could oblivion roll Its slumberous billows o'er my shrinking soul, Thee scarce I could, e'en then, forget: A life, bereft of light, no memory need To tell of night that ne'er to morning leads, Of day that is forever set.

From yonder sky the noonward sun was torn, Ere day dawn's rosy hues had banished; A starless midnight blotted out the morn, Ere childhood's dewy joys had vanished.

No slow paced twilight ushered in the night; A spangled web, the Heavens were swept from sight; The full moon fled and never waned; And all of Earth that's beautiful and fair.

Became as shadows in the empty air-- A boundless, blackened blank remained!

I heard the gates of night, with sullen jar, Close on the cheerful day forever; Hope from my sky sank like the evening star, Which finds in darkness, zenith never, For scarce she knew, blithe offspring of the day, How there to s.h.i.+ne, where night held boundless sway; And shapes of beauty, grace and bloom, And fair-formed joys that once around me danced, Bewildered grew, where sunbeams never glanced, And lost their way in that wide gloom.

Pensylla, o'er me many sunless years Have flown, since last the beams of heaven, The soft ascent of morn through smiles and tears, The sweet descent of dreamy even-- Or sight of wood and fields in green arrayed, Vernal resplendence or Autumnal shade, Or Winter's gloom or Summer's blaze; Bird, beast or works that trophy man's abode, Or he divine, the image of his G.o.d, Met my rapt gaze.

Look, gentle guide! Thou see'st the imperial sun Forth sending far his ambient glory, O'er laughing fields and frowning highlands dun, O'er glancing streams and woodlands h.o.a.ry.

In orient clouds he steeps his amber hair, With beams far slanting through the flaming air, Bids Earth, with all her hymning sound, declare The praise of everlasting light.

On my bared head I felt his pitying ray, He loves to s.h.i.+ne on my benighted way; But ah, Pensylla! he brings to me no day-- Nor yet his setting, deeper night.

Prime gift of G.o.d, that veil'st His sovereign throne, And dost of Him in sense remind me-- Blest light of Heaven, why hast thou from me flown?

To these sad shades, why hast resigned me?

On pinions of surpa.s.sing beauty borne, When Nature hails the glad advance of morn, In thine unsullied loveliness.

Thou com'st; but to my darkened eyes in vain-- My night, e'en in the noon of thy domain, Yields not to thee, since joy of thine again Can ne'er my dayless being bless.

SILENCE.

Next, Silence, fit companion of the Night, In drearier depths my being steeping, Like the felt presence of an unseen sprite, With m.u.f.fled tread comes creeping, creeping.

Before me close her smothering curtain swings, And o'er my life a shadeless shadow flings; Sinking with pitiless weight, and slow To shroud the last sweet glimpse of Earth and Man, And set my limits to the narrow span Of but an arm's length here below.

O, whither shall I fly, this stroke to shun?

Where turn me, this side death and heaven?

Almost I would my course on earth were run, And all to Night and Silence given!

I turn to man: can he but with me mourn?

Alike we're helpless, and, as bubbles borne, We to a common haven float.

To Him, th' All-seeing and All-hearing One, Behold, I turn! More hid than he there's none, More silent none, none more remote!

Alas, Pensylla, stay that pious tear!

Now nearer come, I fain thy voice would hear, Like music when the soul is dreaming; Like music dropping from a far off sphere, Heard by the good, when life's end draweth near.

It faintly comes, a spirit seeming, The sounds at once entrance me, ear and soul: The voice of winds and waves, the thunder's roll.

The steed's proud neigh, and lamb's meek plaint, The hum of bees, and vesper hymn of birds, The rural harmony of flocks and herds, The song of joy, or praise, and man's sweet words-- Come to me fainter--yet more faint Was my poor soul to G.o.d's great works so dull.

That they from her must hide forever?

Earth too replete with joy, too beautiful, For me, ingrate, that we must sever?

For by sweet scented airs that round me blow, By transient showers, the sun's impa.s.sioned glow, And smell of woods and fields, alone I know Of Spring's approach, and Summer's bloom; And by the pure air, void of odors sweet, By noontide beams, low slanting, without heat, By rude winds, c.u.mbering snows, and hazardous sleet, Of Autumn's blight and Winter's gloom

As at the entrance of an untrod cave, I shrink--so hushed the shades and sombre.

This death of sense makes life a breathing grave, A vital death, a waking slumber!

'Tis as the light itself of G.o.d were fled-- So dark is all around, so still, so dead; Nor hope of change, one ray I find!

Yet must submit. Though fled fore'er the light, Though utter silence bring me double night, Though to my insulated mind, Knowledge her richest pages ne'er unfold, And ”human face divine” I ne'er behold-- Yet must submit, must be resigned!

TO THE SHADES.