Classic Poem

NIGHT THE NINTH

As when a Traveller, a long Day past
In painful Search of what he cannot find,
At Night's Approach, content with the next Cot,
There ruminates, awhile, his Labour lost;
Then, chears his Heart with what his Fate affords,
And chaunts his Sonnet to deceive the Time,
Till the due Season calls him to Repose:
Thus I, long-travell'd in the Ways of Men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy Maze,
Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's Career,
Warn'd by the Langour of Life's Ev'ning Ray,
At length, have hous'd me in a humble Shed;
Where, future Wand'ring banish'd from my Thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet Hour of Rest;
I chase the Moments with a serious Song:
Song sooths our Pains; and Age has Pains to sooth.
*

Seest thou, Lorenzo! what depends on Man?
The Fate of Nature; as for Man, her Birth.
Earth's Actors change Earth's transitory Scenes,
And make Creation groan with human Guilt:
How must it groan, in a new Deluge whelm'd;
But not of Waters? At the destin'd Hour,
By the loud Trumpet summon'd to the Charge,
See, all the formidable Sons of Fire,
Eruptions, Earthquakes, Comets, Lightnings, play
Their various Engines; All at once disgorge
Their blazing Magazines; and take, by Storm,
This poor terrestrial Citadel of Man.
Amazing Period! when each Mountain-Height
Out-burns Vesuvius; Rocks eternal pour
Their melted Mass, as Rivers once they pour'd;
Stars rush; and final Ruin fiercely drives
Her Ploughshare o'er Creation! — While aloft,
More than Astonishment! if more can be!
Far other Firmament than e'er was seen,
Than e'er was thought by Man! Far other Stars!
Stars animate, that govern these of Fire;
Far other Sun! — A Sun, O how unlike
The Babe at Bethle'm! How unlike the Man
Thon groan'd on Calvary! — Yet He it is;
That Man of Sorrows! O how chang'd? What Pomp?
In Grandeur Terrible, All Heav'n descends!
And Gods, ambitious, triumph in His Train,
A swift Archangel, with his golden Wing,
As Blots and Clouds, that darken and disgrace
The Scene divine, sweeps Stars and Suns aside:
And now, all Dross remov'd, Heav'n's own pure Day,
Full on the Confines of our Æther, flames:
While (dreadful Contrast!) far, how far beneath!
Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing Seas,
And Storms sulphureous; her voracious Jaws
Expanding wide, and roaring for her Prey.
*

Shall Man alone, whose Fate, whose final Fate,
Hangs on That Hour, exclude it from his Thought?
I think of nothing else; I see! I feel it!
All Nature, like an Earthquake, trembling round!
All Deities, like Summer's Swarms, on Wing!
All basking in the full Meridian Blaze!
I see the Judge inthron'd! The flaming Guard!
The Volume open'd! Open'd every Heart!
A Sun-Beam pointing out each secret Thought!
No Patron! Intercessor none! Now past
The sweet, the clement, Mediatorial Hour!
For Guilt no Plea! To Pain, no Pause! no Bound!
Inexorable, All! and All, Extreme!
*

Time, this vast Fabric for him built, (and doom'd
With him to fall) now bursting o'er his Head;
His Lamp, the Sun, extinguish'd; from beneath
The Frown of hideous Darkness, calls his Sons
From their long Slumber; from Earth's heaving Womb
To second Birth; contemporary Throng!
Rouz'd at One Call; upstarted from One Bed;
Prest in one Croud; appall'd with One Amaze;
He turns them o'er, Eternity! to thee:
Then (as a King depos'd disdains to live),
He falls on his own Scythe; nor falls alone;
His greatest Foe falls with him; Time, and He
Who murder'd all Time's Offspring, Death, expire.

*

To see the mighty Dramatist's last Act
(As meet) in Glory rising o'er the rest:
No fancy'd God, a God indeed, descends,
To solve all Knots; to strike the Moral home;
To throw full Day on darkest scenes of Time;
To clear, commend, exalt, and crown the Whole:
Hence, in one Peal of loud, eternal Praise,
The charm'd Spectators thunder their Applause,
And the vast Void beyond, Applause resounds.
*

Loose me from Earth's Inclosure, from the Sun's
Contracted Circle set my Heart at large;
Eliminate my Spirit, give it Range
Through Provinces of Thought yet unexplor'd;
Teach me, by this stupendous Scaffolding,
Creation's golden Steps, to climb to Thee
*

Something, like Magick, strikes from this blue Vault;
With just Attention is it view'd? We feel
A sudden Succour, un-implor'd, un-thought;
Nature herself does Half the Work of Man.
Seas, Rivers, Mountains, Forests, Desarts, Rocks,
The Promontory's Height, the Depth profound
Of Subterranean, excavated Grots,
Black-brow'd, and vaulted-high, and yawning wide
From Nature's Structure, or the Scoop of Time;
If ample of Dimension, vast of Size,
Even These an aggrandizing Impulse give;
Of solemn Thought enthusiastic Heights
E'en These infuse — But what of Vast in These?
Nothing; — (or we must own the Skies forgot):
Much less in Art. — Vain Art! Thou Pigmy-Pow'r!
How dost thou swell, and strut, with human Pride,
To shew thy Littleness! What childish Toys,
Thy watry Columns squirted to the Clouds?
Thy bason'd Rivers, and imprison'd Seas?
Thy Mountains molded into Forms of Men?
Thy Hundred-Gated Capitols? or Those
Where Three Days Travel left us much to ride
Gazing on Miracles by Mortals wrought,
Arches triumphal, Theaters immense,
Or nodding Gardens pendent in Mid-Air?
Or Temples proud to meet their Gods Half-way?
Yet These affect us in no common Kind;
What then the Force of such superior Scenes?
Enter a Temple, it will strike an Awe;
What Awe from This the Deity has built?
*

The Soul of Man was made to walk the Skies;
Delightful Outlet of her Prison Here!
There, disincumber'd from her Chains, the Ties
Of Toys terrestrial, she can rove at large;
There, freely can respire, dilate, extend,
In full Proportion let loose all her Pow'rs;
And, undeluded, grasp at something Great:
Nor, as a Stranger, does she wander There;
But, wonderful Herself, thro' Wonder strays;

Of curious Arts art thou more fond? Then mark
The Mathematic Glories of the Skies:
In Number, Weight, and Measure, All ordain'd;
Lorenzo's boasted Builders, Chance, and Fate,
Are left to finish his aeriel Tow'rs;
Wisdom, and Choice, their well-known Characters
Here deep-impress; and claim it for their Own:
Tho' splendid All, no Splendor void of Use;
Use rivals Beauty; Art contends with Pow'r;
No wanton Waste, amid effuse Expence;
The Great Oeconomist adjusting All
To prudent Pomp, magnificently Wise:
Confusion unconfus'd! Nor less admire
This Tumult untumultuous: All on Wing,
In Motion, All! yet what profound Repose?
What fervid Action, yet no Noise! as aw'd
To Silence by the Presence of their Lord;
Or hush'd, by His Command, in Love to Man,
And bid let fall soft Beams on human Rest,
Restless themselves. On yon caerulean Plain,
In Exultation to Their God, and Thine,
They dance, they sing eternal Jubilee,
Eternal Celebration of His Praise:
But, since their Song arrives not at our Ear,
Their Dance perplex'd exhibits to the Sight
Fair Hieroglyphic of His peerless Power:
Mark, how, the Labyrinthian Turns they take,
The Circles intricate, and mystic Maze,
Weave the grand Cypher of Omnipotence;
To Gods, how great? how Legible to Man?
*

But Oh! — I faint! — My Spirits fail! — Nor strange;
So long on Wing, and in no middle Clime;
To which my Great Creator's Glory call'd;
And calls — but, now, in vain: Sleep's dewy Wand
Has strok'd my drooping Lids; and promises
My long Arrear of Rest: The downy God,
Wont to return with our returning Peace,
Will pay, ere-long; and bless me with Repose
Haste, haste, sweet Stranger! from the Peasant's Cot;
The Ship-boy's Hammock, or the Soldier's Straw,
Whence Sorrow never chas'd thee: With thee bring
Not hideous Visions, as of late; but Draughts
Delicious of well-tasted, cordial, Rest;
Man's rich Restorative; his balmy Bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in Play
The Various Movements of this nice Machine,
Which asks such frequent Periods of Repair.
When tir'd with vain Rotations of the Day,
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding Dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till Sickness clogs our Wheels,
Or Death quite breaks the Spring, and Motion ends.
When will it end with Me?
*

Thus, Darkness aiding Intellectual Light,
And Sacred Silence whispering Truths Divine,
And Truths Divine converting Pain to Peace,
My Song the Midnight Raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded Scenes,
Beyond the flaming Limits of the World,
Her gloomy Flight. But what avails the Flight
Of Fancy, when our Hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in Flatterers, and Foes;
'Tis Pride, to praise her; Penance to perform:
To more than Words, to more than Worth of Tongue,
Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious Hour;
An Hour, when Heaven's most intimate with Man;
When, like a falling Star, the Ray Divine
Glides swift into the Bosom of the Just;
And Just are All, determin'd to reclaim;
Which sets that Title high, within thy Reach.
Awake, then: Thy Philander calls: Awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the Creation sleeps;
When, like a Taper, all these Suns expire;
When Time, like Him of Gaza, in his Wrath,
Plucking the Pillars that support the World,
In Nature's ample Ruins lies entomb'd;
And Midnight, Universal Midnight! reigns

NIGHT THE NINTH

As when a Traveller, a long Day past
In painful Search of what he cannot find,
At Night's Approach, content with the next Cot,
There ruminates, awhile, his Labour lost;
Then, chears his Heart with what his Fate affords,
And chaunts his Sonnet to deceive the Time,
Till the due Season calls him to Repose:
Thus I, long-travell'd in the Ways of Men,
And dancing, with the rest, the giddy Maze,
Where Disappointment smiles at Hope's Career,
Warn'd by the Langour of Life's Ev'ning Ray,
At length, have hous'd me in a humble Shed;
Where, future Wand'ring banish'd from my Thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet Hour of Rest;
I chase the Moments with a serious Song:
Song sooths our Pains; and Age has Pains to sooth.
*

Seest thou, Lorenzo! what depends on Man?
The Fate of Nature; as for Man, her Birth.
Earth's Actors change Earth's transitory Scenes,
And make Creation groan with human Guilt:
How must it groan, in a new Deluge whelm'd;
But not of Waters? At the destin'd Hour,
By the loud Trumpet summon'd to the Charge,
See, all the formidable Sons of Fire,
Eruptions, Earthquakes, Comets, Lightnings, play
Their various Engines; All at once disgorge
Their blazing Magazines; and take, by Storm,
This poor terrestrial Citadel of Man.
Amazing Period! when each Mountain-Height
Out-burns Vesuvius; Rocks eternal pour
Their melted Mass, as Rivers once they pour'd;
Stars rush; and final Ruin fiercely drives
Her Ploughshare o'er Creation! — While aloft,
More than Astonishment! if more can be!
Far other Firmament than e'er was seen,
Than e'er was thought by Man! Far other Stars!
Stars animate, that govern these of Fire;
Far other Sun! — A Sun, O how unlike
The Babe at Bethle'm! How unlike the Man
Thon groan'd on Calvary! — Yet He it is;
That Man of Sorrows! O how chang'd? What Pomp?
In Grandeur Terrible, All Heav'n descends!
And Gods, ambitious, triumph in His Train,
A swift Archangel, with his golden Wing,
As Blots and Clouds, that darken and disgrace
The Scene divine, sweeps Stars and Suns aside:
And now, all Dross remov'd, Heav'n's own pure Day,
Full on the Confines of our Æther, flames:
While (dreadful Contrast!) far, how far beneath!
Hell, bursting, belches forth her blazing Seas,
And Storms sulphureous; her voracious Jaws
Expanding wide, and roaring for her Prey.
*

Shall Man alone, whose Fate, whose final Fate,
Hangs on That Hour, exclude it from his Thought?
I think of nothing else; I see! I feel it!
All Nature, like an Earthquake, trembling round!
All Deities, like Summer's Swarms, on Wing!
All basking in the full Meridian Blaze!
I see the Judge inthron'd! The flaming Guard!
The Volume open'd! Open'd every Heart!
A Sun-Beam pointing out each secret Thought!
No Patron! Intercessor none! Now past
The sweet, the clement, Mediatorial Hour!
For Guilt no Plea! To Pain, no Pause! no Bound!
Inexorable, All! and All, Extreme!
*

Time, this vast Fabric for him built, (and doom'd
With him to fall) now bursting o'er his Head;
His Lamp, the Sun, extinguish'd; from beneath
The Frown of hideous Darkness, calls his Sons
From their long Slumber; from Earth's heaving Womb
To second Birth; contemporary Throng!
Rouz'd at One Call; upstarted from One Bed;
Prest in one Croud; appall'd with One Amaze;
He turns them o'er, Eternity! to thee:
Then (as a King depos'd disdains to live),
He falls on his own Scythe; nor falls alone;
His greatest Foe falls with him; Time, and He
Who murder'd all Time's Offspring, Death, expire.
*

To see the mighty Dramatist's last Act
(As meet) in Glory rising o'er the rest:
No fancy'd God, a God indeed, descends,
To solve all Knots; to strike the Moral home;
To throw full Day on darkest scenes of Time;
To clear, commend, exalt, and crown the Whole:
Hence, in one Peal of loud, eternal Praise,
The charm'd Spectators thunder their Applause,
And the vast Void beyond, Applause resounds.
*

Loose me from Earth's Inclosure, from the Sun's
Contracted Circle set my Heart at large;
Eliminate my Spirit, give it Range
Through Provinces of Thought yet unexplor'd;
Teach me, by this stupendous Scaffolding,
Creation's golden Steps, to climb to Thee
*

Something, like Magick, strikes from this blue Vault;
With just Attention is it view'd? We feel
A sudden Succour, un-implor'd, un-thought;
Nature herself does Half the Work of Man.
Seas, Rivers, Mountains, Forests, Desarts, Rocks,
The Promontory's Height, the Depth profound
Of Subterranean, excavated Grots,
Black-brow'd, and vaulted-high, and yawning wide
From Nature's Structure, or the Scoop of Time;
If ample of Dimension, vast of Size,
Even These an aggrandizing Impulse give;
Of solemn Thought enthusiastic Heights
E'en These infuse — But what of Vast in These?
Nothing; — (or we must own the Skies forgot):
Much less in Art. — Vain Art! Thou Pigmy-Pow'r!
How dost thou swell, and strut, with human Pride,
To shew thy Littleness! What childish Toys,
Thy watry Columns squirted to the Clouds?
Thy bason'd Rivers, and imprison'd Seas?
Thy Mountains molded into Forms of Men?
Thy Hundred-Gated Capitols? or Those
Where Three Days Travel left us much to ride
Gazing on Miracles by Mortals wrought,
Arches triumphal, Theaters immense,
Or nodding Gardens pendent in Mid-Air?
Or Temples proud to meet their Gods Half-way?
Yet These affect us in no common Kind;
What then the Force of such superior Scenes?
Enter a Temple, it will strike an Awe;
What Awe from This the Deity has built?
*

The Soul of Man was made to walk the Skies;
Delightful Outlet of her Prison Here!
There, disincumber'd from her Chains, the Ties
Of Toys terrestrial, she can rove at large;
There, freely can respire, dilate, extend,
In full Proportion let loose all her Pow'rs;
And, undeluded, grasp at something Great:
Nor, as a Stranger, does she wander There;
But, wonderful Herself, thro' Wonder strays;
Of curious Arts art thou more fond? Then mark
The Mathematic Glories of the Skies:
In Number, Weight, and Measure, All ordain'd;
Lorenzo's boasted Builders, Chance, and Fate,
Are left to finish his aeriel Tow'rs;
Wisdom, and Choice, their well-known Characters
Here deep-impress; and claim it for their Own:
Tho' splendid All, no Splendor void of Use;
Use rivals Beauty; Art contends with Pow'r;
No wanton Waste, amid effuse Expence;
The Great Oeconomist adjusting All
To prudent Pomp, magnificently Wise:
Confusion unconfus'd! Nor less admire
This Tumult untumultuous: All on Wing,
In Motion, All! yet what profound Repose?
What fervid Action, yet no Noise! as aw'd
To Silence by the Presence of their Lord;
Or hush'd, by His Command, in Love to Man,
And bid let fall soft Beams on human Rest,
Restless themselves. On yon caerulean Plain,
In Exultation to Their God, and Thine,
They dance, they sing eternal Jubilee,
Eternal Celebration of His Praise:
But, since their Song arrives not at our Ear,
Their Dance perplex'd exhibits to the Sight
Fair Hieroglyphic of His peerless Power:
Mark, how, the Labyrinthian Turns they take,
The Circles intricate, and mystic Maze,
Weave the grand Cypher of Omnipotence;
To Gods, how great? how Legible to Man?
*

But Oh! — I faint! — My Spirits fail! — Nor strange;
So long on Wing, and in no middle Clime;
To which my Great Creator's Glory call'd;
And calls — but, now, in vain: Sleep's dewy Wand
Has strok'd my drooping Lids; and promises
My long Arrear of Rest: The downy God,
Wont to return with our returning Peace,
Will pay, ere-long; and bless me with Repose
Haste, haste, sweet Stranger! from the Peasant's Cot;
The Ship-boy's Hammock, or the Soldier's Straw,
Whence Sorrow never chas'd thee: With thee bring
Not hideous Visions, as of late; but Draughts
Delicious of well-tasted, cordial, Rest;
Man's rich Restorative; his balmy Bath,
That supples, lubricates, and keeps in Play
The Various Movements of this nice Machine,
Which asks such frequent Periods of Repair.
When tir'd with vain Rotations of the Day,
Sleep winds us up for the succeeding Dawn;
Fresh we spin on, till Sickness clogs our Wheels,
Or Death quite breaks the Spring, and Motion ends.
When will it end with Me?
*

Thus, Darkness aiding Intellectual Light,
And Sacred Silence whispering Truths Divine,
And Truths Divine converting Pain to Peace,
My Song the Midnight Raven has outwing'd,
And shot, ambitious of unbounded Scenes,
Beyond the flaming Limits of the World,
Her gloomy Flight. But what avails the Flight
Of Fancy, when our Hearts remain below?
Virtue abounds in Flatterers, and Foes;
'Tis Pride, to praise her; Penance to perform:
To more than Words, to more than Worth of Tongue,
Lorenzo! rise, at this auspicious Hour;
An Hour, when Heaven's most intimate with Man;
When, like a falling Star, the Ray Divine
Glides swift into the Bosom of the Just;
And Just are All, determin'd to reclaim;
Which sets that Title high, within thy Reach.
Awake, then: Thy Philander calls: Awake!
Thou, who shalt wake, when the Creation sleeps;
When, like a Taper, all these Suns expire;
When Time, like Him of Gaza, in his Wrath,
Plucking the Pillars that support the World,
In Nature's ample Ruins lies entomb'd;
And Midnight, Universal Midnight! Reigns