The World As I Have Found It Part 18

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.

To thee, blind Milton, solemn son of night, Great exile once from day's dominion bright, Whose genius, steeped in truth and glory, Like some wide orb of new created light, Rose, in the world, bewildering mortals' sight-- I'll sing till earth's young hills grow h.o.a.ry!

For what of joy I've found in life's dark way, And what of excellence have reached I may, Much, much is due thy wondrous rhyme, Which sang the triumphs of Eternal Truth, Revealed blest glimpses of immortal youth, Of Heaven, e'er angels sang of time: Of light, that o'er the embryon tumult broke, Of earth, when all the stars symphonious woke, Till man, as if from Heaven a seraph spoke, Entranced, hung on thy strains sublime.

Day closes on the earth his one bright eye, That Night, her starry lids unsealing, May ope her thousand in a loftier sky, G.o.d's higher mysteries revealing.

So when thy day from thee its light withdrew, And o'er the night its rueful shadows threw, And "from the cheerful ways of men"

Thy steps cut off, thy mind, thick set with eyes, As night with stars, piercing thy shrouded skies, And proving most illumined then, When darkest seeming, soared on cherub wings-- Those star-eyed wings--higher than ever springs The beam of day, to see, and tell of things Invisible to mortal ken.

O'er earth thy numbers shall not cease to roll Till man to live, who to them hearkened; Thy fame, no less immortal than thy soul, Shall s.h.i.+ne when yon proud sun is darkened.

Thee, now, methinks, I see, O bard divine!

Where ripen no fair joys that are not thine, And G.o.d's full love is pleased on thee to s.h.i.+ne, Still by the heavenly Muses fired, And starred among the angelic minstrel band, The sacred lyre thou sway'st with sovereign hand, While seraphs, in awed rapture, round thee stand, As one by G.o.d himself inspired.

Sublime Beethoven, wizard king of sound, Once exiled from thy realm, yet not discrowned-- a.s.sist me; since my spirit, thrilling With thy surpa.s.sing strains, is mute, spell bound; For through the hush of years they still resound, With music weird my spent ear filling.

When Silence clasped thee in her dismal spell, And Earth born Music sang her sad farewell; Thy mighty Genius, as in scorn, Arose in silent majesty to dwell, Where from symphonic spheres thou heard'st to swell, As on celestial breezes borne, Sounds, scarce by angels heard, e'en in their dreams; Which, at thy bidding, wrought a thousand themes, And pouring down in rich pellucid streams, Filled organ grand and resonant horn; With rarest sweetness touched each dulcet string, Made martial bugle and bold clarion ring, Soft flute provoked like the lone bird of spring, To warble lays of love forlorn; Woke shrilly reed to many a pastoral note Thrilled witching lyre and lips melodious smote, Till earth, in tuneful ether, seemed to float-- As when first sang the stars of morn!

Till wondering angels were entranced to chime, With harp and choral tongue, thy strains sublime And bear thy soul beyond the reach of time, Heaven's halls harmonious to adorn.

Ah, me! could I with ken angelic, scan Celestial glories hid from mortal man, I'd deem this night a day supernal!

Could music, borne from some far singing sphere, Float sweetly down and thrill my stricken ear, I'd pray this hush might be eternal!

RESIGNATION.

Pensylla, look! With tremulous points of fire, The sun, red-sinking lights yon distant spire O'er leafy hill and blossoming meadows, Spreads wide and level his departing beams, Then sinks to rest, as one sure of sweet dreams, 'Mid pillowing clouds and curtaining shadows.

Night draws her lucid shade o'er sky and earth; Solemn and bright, Heaven's starry eyes look forth; The evening hymn of praise and song of mirth Rise gratefully from man's abode.

O, Night! I love her sombre majesty!

'Tis sweet, her double solitude, to me!

Pensylla, leave me now! Alone I'd be With Darkness, Silence and my G.o.d.

O Thou, whose shadow is but light's excess, The echo of whose voice but silentness, Whose light and music, half expended, Would flood, dissolve the sphery frame; 'twixt whom And man no endless night can throw its gloom Till long Eternity is ended-- Which ne'er shall end--to thee, my trust, I turn!

To one, for whom in vain thy lamps now burn, A hearing deign; nor from thy footstool spurn The prayer of an imprisoned mind.

Father, thy sun is set; night veils the world, That orbs more beauteous be to man unfurled, Then in my Night, let me but find New realms, where thought and fancy may rejoice; Let its long silence ne'er displace Thy voice From whispering hope and peace, 'twere my choice To be thus smitten deaf and blind!

Fill me with light and music from above, And so inspire with truth, faith, courage, love, That Thou and man my work can well approve-- Father, to all I'm then resigned!

Harp of the mournful voice, now fare thee well!

My sad song ended, ended is thy spell.

Perchance thine echoes, memory haunting, May oft awaken, shadowing forth the swell Of long sung monody and long tolled knell, And o'er the dead past, dirges chanting; But for me, ever hang in Sorrow's hall!

Bid Night and Silence spread oblivion's pall O'er earthly blooming joys, that seared must fall And leave the stricken soul to weep:-- Ever, till this devoted head be h.o.a.r, And the swart angel whispering at the door; When I thy slumbers may disturb once more.

Ere double night bring double sleep, Till then, I sing in happier, bolder strain: What's lost to me is G.o.d's; what's left, for pain Or joy still His: and endless day, His reign: And reckoning of my Night He'll keep!

AUTUMN.

BY ELLENOR J. JONES,

Of the Indiana Inst.i.tution.

Oh Autumn, sweet sad Autumn queen, With robe of golden brown, Our hearts are bowed with grief and pain, As each leaf flutters down.

In every drooping flow'ret, In every leafless tree, By warbling birds deserted, We find some trace of thee.