Poems, &c. (1790) Part 8

Now fly the shadows borne upon the wind; Succeeding brightness travels fast behind.

And now it low'rs again. Inconstant Night, Confound thy freaks! be either dark or light.

Yet let them come; whate'er thy changes be, I was a fool to put my trust in thee.

AN ADDRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A SORROWFUL MIND.

How lone and dreary hangs the sombre Night O'er wood and valley, stream and craggy height!

While nearer objects, bush, and waving bough, Their dark uncertain forms but dimly show; Like those with which disturbed fancies teem, And shape the scen'ry of a gloomy dream.

The moon is cover'd with her sable shrowd; And o'er the heav'us rove many a dusky cloud; Thro' ragged rents the paly sky is seen, And feebly glance the twinkling stars between: Whilst earth below is wrapt in stilly gloom, All sad and silent as the closed tomb.

No bleating flock is heard upon the vale; Nor lowing kine upon the open dale; Nor voice of hunter on the lonely heath; Nor sound of trav'ller on the distant path.

Shut is the fenced door of man's abode; And ruffling breezes only are abroad.

How mournful is thy voice, O nightly gale!

Across the wood, or down the narrow vale; And sad, tho' secret and unknown they be, The sighs of woeful hearts that wake with thee.

For now no friends the haunts of sorrow seek; Tears hang unchidden on the mourner's cheek: No side-look vexes from the curious eye; Nor calm reproving reasoner is by; The kindly c.u.mbrous visitor is gone, And laden spirits love to sigh alone.

O Night! wild sings the wind, deep low'rs the shade; Thy robe is gloomy, and thy voice is sad: But weary souls confin'd in earthly cell Are deep in kindred gloom, and love thee well.

But now the veiling darkness pa.s.ses by; The moon unclouded holds the middle sky.

A soft and mellow light is o'er the wood; And silv'ry pureness sparkles on the flood.

White tow'r the clifts from many a craggy breach; The brown heath shews afar its dreary stretch.

While fairer as the brighten'd object swells, Fast by its side the darker shadow dwells: The lofty mountains form the deeper glade, And keener light but marks the blacker made.

Then welcome yonder clouds that swiftly sail, And o'er yon glary op'ning draw the veil.

But, ah! too swiftly flies the friendly shade!

Returning brightness travels up the glade, And all is light again. O fickle Night!

No traveller is here to bless thy light.

I seek nor home, nor shed; I have no way; Why send thy beams to one who cannot stray?

Or wood, or desert, is the same to me; O low'r again, and let me rest with thee!

AN ADDRESS TO THE NIGHT.

A JOYFUL MIND.

The warping gloom of night is gather'd round; And varied darkness marks the uneven ground.

A dimmer shade is on the mountain's brow, And deeper low'rs the lengthen'd vale below; While nearer objects all enlarged and dark, Their strange and shapeless forms uncouthly mark; Which thro' muddy night are dimly shown, Like old companions in a garb unknown.

The heavy sheeted clouds are spread on high, And streaky darkness bounds the farther sky: And swift along the lighter vagrants sweep, Whilst clear stars thro' their riven edges peep.

Soft thro' each ragged breach, and streamy rent, And open gaps in dusky circle pent, The upper heaven looks serenely bright In dappled gold, and snowy fleeces dight: And on the middle current lightly glides The lesser cloud, with silver wreathy sides.

In sudden gusts awakes the nightly breeze Across the wood, and rustles thro' the trees; Or whistles on the plain with eddying sweep; Or issues from the glen in wailings deep, Which die away upon the open vale: Whilst in the pauses of the ruffling gale The buzzing night-fly rises from the ground, And wings his flight in many a mazy round; And lonely owls begin their nightly strain, So hateful to the ear of 'nighted swain.

Thou do'st the weary trav'ller mislead; Thy voice is roughsome, and uncooth thy weed, O gloomy Night! for black thy shadows be, And fools have rais'd a bad report on thee.

Yet art thou free and friendly to the gay, And light hearts prize thee equal to the day.

Now tiresome plodding folks are gone to rest; And soothing slumber locks the careful breast.

And tell-tale friends, and wise advisers snore; And softly slip-shod youths unbar the door.

Now footsteps echo far, and watch-dogs bark; Worms glow, and cats' eyes glitter in the dark.

The vagrant lover crosses moor and hill, And near the lowly cottage whistles shrill: Or, bolder grown, beneath the friendly shade, Taps at the window of his fav'rite maid; Who from above his simple tale receives, Whilst stupid matrons start, and think of thieves, Now daily fools unbar the narrow soul, All wise and gen'rous o'er the nightly bowl.

The haunted wood receives its motley host, (By trav'ller shun'd) tho' neither f.a.g nor ghost; And there the crackling bonfire blazes red, While merry vagrants feast beneath the shed.

From sleepless beds unquiet spirits rise, And cunning wags put on their borrow'd guise: Whilst silly maidens mutter o'er their boon, And crop their fairy weeds beneath the moon: And harmless plotters slyly take the road, And trick and playful mischief is abroad.

But, lo! the moon looks forth in splendour bright, Fair and unclouded, from her middle height.

The pa.s.sing cloud unveils her kindly ray, And slowly sails its weary length away; While broken fragments from its fleecy side, In dusky bands before it swiftly glide; Their misty texture changing with the wind, A strange and scatter'd group, of motley kind As ever earth or fruitful ocean fed, Or ever youthful poets fancy bred.

His surgy length the wreathing serpent trails, And by his side the rugged camel sails: The winged griffith follows close behind, And spreads his dusky pinions to the wind.

Athwart the sky in scatter'd bands they range From shape to shape, transform'd in endless change; Then piece meal torn, in ragged portions stray, Or thinly spreading, slowly melt away.

A softer brightness covers all below; Hill, dale, and wood, in mellow'd colour's glow.

High tow'rs the whiten'd rock in added strength; The brown heath shews afar its dreary length.

The winding river glitters on the vale; And gilded trees wave in the pa.s.sing gale.

Upon the ground each black'ning shadow lies, And hasty darkness o'er the valley flies.

Wide sheeting shadows travel o'er the plain, And swiftly close upon the varied scene.

Return, O lovely moon! and look from high, All stately riding in thy motled sky, Yet, O thy beams in hasty visits come!

As swiftly follow'd by the fleeting gloom.

O Night! thy smiles are short, and short thy shade; Thou art a freakish friend, and all unstay'd: Yet from thy varied changes who are free?

Full many an honest friend resembles thee.

Then let my doubtful footsteps darkling stray, Thy next fair beam will set me on my way: E'en take thy freedom, whether rough or kind, I came not forth to quarrel with the wind.

TO FEAR.

O thou! before whose haggard eyes A thousand images arise, Whose forms of horror none may see, But with a soul disturb'd by thee!

Wilt thon for ever haunt mankind, And glare upon the darken'd mind!

Whene'er thou enterest a breast, Thou robb'st it of its joy and rest; And terrible, and strange to tell, On what that mind delights to dwell.

The ruffian's knife with reeking blade, The stranger murder'd in his bed: The howling wind, the raging deep, The sailor's cries, the sinking ship: The awful thunder breaking round: The yauning gulf, the rocking ground: The precipice, whose low'ring brow O'erhangs the horrid deep below; And tempts the wretch, worn out with strife, Of worldly cares, to end his life.

But when thou raisest to the fight Unearthly forms that walk the night, The chilly blood, with magic art, Runs backward on the stoutest heart.

Lo! in his post the soldier stands[See Spectator, No. 12.]!

The deadly weapon in his hands.

In front of death he rushes on, Renown with life is cheaply won, Whilst all his soul with ardour burns, And to the thickest danger turns.

But see the man alone, unbent, A church-yard near, and twilight spent, Returning late to his abode, Upon an unfrequented road: No choice is left, his feet must tread The awful dwelling of the dead.

In foul mist doth the pale moon wade, No twinkling star breaks thro' the shade: Thick rows of trees increase the gloom, And awful silence of the tomb.

Swift to his thoughts, unbidden, throng Full many a tale, forgotten long, Of ghosts, who at the dead of night Walk round their graves all wrapt in white, And o'er the church-yard dark and drear, Becken the traveller to draw near: And restless sprites, who from the ground, Just as the midnight clock doth sound, Rise slowly to a dreadful height, Then vanish quickly from the fight: And wretches who, returning home, By chance have stumbled near some tomb, Athwart a coffin or a bone, And three times heard a hollow groan; With fearful steps he takes his way, And shrinks, and wishes it were day.

He starts and quakes at his own tread, But dare not turn about his head.

Some sound he hears on ev'ry side; And thro' the trees strange phantoms glide.

His heart beats thick against his breast, And hardly stays within its chest: Wild and unsettled are his eyes; His quicken'd hairs begin to rise: Ghastly and strong his features grow; The cold dew trickles from his brow; Whilst grinning beat his clatt'ring teeth, And loosen'd knock his joints beneath.

As to the charnel he draws nigh The whiten'd tomb-stone strikes his eye: He starts, he stops, his eye-b.a.l.l.s glare, And settle in a death-like stare: Deep hollow sounds ring in his ear; Such sounds as dying wretches hear When the grim dreaded tyrant calls, A horrid sound, he groans and falls.

Thou do'st our fairest hope destroy; Thou art a gloom o'er ev'ry joy; Unheeded let my dwelling be, O Fear! but far remov'd from thee!

A STORY OF OTHER TIMES.

SOMEWHAT IN IMITATION OF THE POEMS OF OSSIAN.

LATHMOR.

But why do'st thou stop on the way, and hold me thus hard in thy grasp?