Classic Poem

Slow-rising night had her black flag unfurl'd ,
And spread her sooty mantle o'er the world;
The waning moon shed pale, a sickly light,
And stars scarce twinkled , to th' enquiring sight .
Half the lost earth, by darkness, over-run,
Wept , in cold dews, the absence of the sun .
The waves were hush'd; the winds forgot to roar,
And storms , detach'd, in breezes, cours'd the shoar .
Now back'ning, aweful, nerv'd, erect, serene,
Asserted musick swells her heighten'd mien .
Fearless, with face oblique, her formful hand
Flies o'er the ivory plain, with stretch'd command;
Plunges, with bold neglect, amidst the keys,
And sweeps the sounding range, with magic ease.

Now, two contending senses — ear , and eye ,
In pride of feasted taste, for transport, vye ;
But what avails two destin'd slaves debate,
When both are sure to fall, and share one fate?
Whether the god, within , evolving round,
Strikes in her notes, and flows, dissolv'd, in sound,
Or, silent, in her eyes, enthron'd, in light,
Blazes, confess'd to view, and wounds our sight .
This way, or that, alike , his pow'r we try,
To see , but kills us — and, to hear , we die.

Oh! far-felt influence of the speaking string
Prompt, at thy call, the mounting soul takes wing;
Waves, in the gale, fore-runs th' harmonious breeze,
And sinks, and rises, to the changeful keys.

But, hark! what length'ning softness, thrilling new,
Steals, 'twixt the solemn swells , and threads 'em through:
'Tis her transporting voice! — she sings — be still,
Sweet strings, forbear! — ye hurt her sweeter skill.
Yet, no — sound on — the strong, and sweet, should join;
With double pow'r, mix'd opposites combine.
'Tis plain! my captive senses feel it true;
Ah, what dire mischiefs may not union do!
Cou'd she not save delight, from half this strain?
Heard , and beheld , at once! — 'tis hopeless pain.
Fly, and escape — let one press'd sense retire;
The rais'd hat shades it, from the darted fire.
Alas! vain screen! — the soul's unclouded ray
Sees, from within , by a new blaze of day:
Sees the spread roof, with op'ning glories, crown'd,
And radiant deities descending round!
Throng'd, in bright lines, or wing'd, in ambient air,
Spirits, in fairy forms, inclose the fair .
The mix'd creation was involv'd in sleep;
Fishes roll'd, slumb'ring , thro' the stagnate deep.
Beasts, birds , and serpents , various beds possest,
Some, in thick woods , some, in dark caverns , rest.
Antipathies , in common sleep, took part;
Care curs'd not thought , and woe forgot to smart .
Immerg'd in rest , my drowsy senses lay,
And death's proud image practis'd, on my clay .
But while, disdainful of the mean controul ,
No dull desires invade my wakeful soul ;
Active, the' inspirer, skilful to pursue,
Thro' the wild tracks of mazy mem'ry , flew;
There , scatter'd images to union brought,
And form'd this wond'rous vision , to my thought:

I found myself at dead of deepest night,
Chear'd , by no glimm'ring spark of remnant light ,
Lock'd, in that antient, venerable pile ,
Which holds her sacred dust , who, lately blest our isle ;
Ascending damps the gloomy concave sought,
And hung, imprison'd , to th' impervious vault :
While my shod feet trac'd, swift, the dusky round ,
Hoarse echoes multiply'd the trampling sound,
The sweating stones distill'd a noisome dew,
And earthy scents my death-fed nostrils drew.
Cold frosts of fear pierc'd, keen, thro' ev'ry part,
And shiv'ring agues shook my ice-bound heart.
A hollow wind , from whist'ling murmurs , bore
Its gath'ring din more high, and strove to roar!
The tatter'd trophies fann'd the prison'd air,
And chill amazement stiffen'd up my hair .

While fix'd, I stood, intent on rumblings near,
And distant groans alarm'd my aking ear,
Sudden, the temple shone, with rushing light ,
And new-born terrors overwhelm'd my sight.
Ghosts , from the loos'ning pavement , rais'd their head,
And yawning graves disclose their shrouded dead.
Shot up, in streams, a mist of spirits rise,
As morning exhalations streak the skies.
Soul-freezing horror tingled through my blood,
And curdling fear bound hard the vital flood.
Unbending nerves their dying vigour lost,
And drooping life scarce held her dang'rous post.
Large drops of sweat , from every singer , shed,
And the whole frame of nature shook with dread.

From the east end, where mould'ring monarchs lie,
And worms , luxuriant, feast on royalty ;
Where each proud tomb some dust of princes boasts,
There marches out a troop of sov'reign ghosts
Each, in his shadowy hand, a scepter brings,
Th' acknowledg'd mark of pow'r , in living kings .
A glitt'ring diadem each forehead wore;
Their robes trail'd, loose, and swept the honour'd floor!
With slow, and stately stride, the monarchs tread ,
And ev'ry meaner spirit bows its head.
In foremost rank, as latest known to fame ,
The grave-brow'd ghost of aweful Anna came;
Calm, and serene, the silent walks they trace,
And halt, regardful, at each solemn place:
Visit each tomb , and in mysterious state,
Hail the dry remnants of the wasted great .

This pomp of death, thus, wore half night away,
And came, at length, where D ENMARK'S body lay:
There Anna staid, and looking, careful, round,
With shadowy scepter , touch'd the conscious ground.
'Tis strange, she sigh'd, that he , whom most I blest,
Has never thank'd me, since I came to rest .

The willing ghost his marbly fetters broke,
And rose up, slowly, at the pow'rful stroke:
An air of sorrow bent his serious head ,
His eyes some seeming tears, reluctant, shed.
With folded arms , and discontented look ,
Thrice bow'd he, gently, and thus, faintly, spoke:

Hail, happy shade! rest here, unforc'd to reign,
Nor toil, to save a stubborn land, in vain:
How did just pity sweeten thy controul!
How did'st thou strain thy virtue-propping soul!
How did'st thou wish th' unfinish'd course to run!
And act, in will , what pow'r has left undone!
For this , since death, detraction wounds thy fame,
And insolent reproach corrodes thy name.
Ungrateful people! un-repenting state!
Hast thou, O Queen! deserv'd th' ungentle fate?

He ceas'd: — Each list'ning monarch shook his head,
While she , to whom he spoke, thus, answ'ring, said:
O, D ENMARK ! wonder not at ills, like those;
Angels , if crown'd in England , wou'd have foes!
Desert, like mine, with living glories paid,
Can fear no scandal , when become a shade .
If aught's left wanting to my people's pray'r,
Mourn not th' unfinish'd progress of my care.
When princes some wish'd good, in vain, pursue,
By them not done, 'tis left for heav'n to do.
Let us, in peace, enjoy our silent bed,
Truth always triumphs , when she serves the dead .