A Reverie
I cannot sleep; for many a dream of home
Through the dark caverns of the brain has come,
Peopling its desert with bright images
Of all that I have left or lost: there is
No sleep for me; and I will walk awhile.
'Tis midnight, and the thick stars brightly smile
Upon the slumbering earth; the deep clear stream
Glides noiseless by my feet; the still world dreams
Of its age of gold, long vanished. All around
The listening ear detects no passing sound,
Save the wild wolf's cry, that among far hills,
Afflicts night's ear with long, low, mournful thrills;
And the hoarse owl, that now and then booms out
His harsh, unearthly, melancholy shout,
And then is silent; while at intervals,
The watch-dog moans, and stirs, and once more falls
Into deep slumber. Still as infant death,
The broad and heavy forest sleeps beneath
The white foam of the Galaxy, which lies
Above its green waves, with its myriad eyes,
Patiently shining from its silver drifts.
No wind his wild and mournful voice uplifts,
Among the tree-tops; everything lies still.
Now is the hour for thought; the mind can fill
Itself with voices at this solemn hour.
The thoughts so dormant under daylight's power,
Like wingless bees, swarming about the heart,
With wild, uncertain, troubled melody,
Are shaped by midnight's calm, resistless art,
To forms that, coming from the shadowy sea
Of memory, people the quivering soul.
The echoes of the past roll through the heart,
With palpable and strange reality,
And shake its strings, as the wind shakes the chords
Of an Ӕolian harp, till from its roll
The keen vibrations of intensest thought.
The soul now wanders back to its old home,
And flits through every well-remembered spot,
Where I was used in olden time to roam;
And peers in many a much-loved face, that not
A thousand years could from my heart erase:
Wanders beneath old trees, by rustic wells,
And quaint old houses hidden in low dells,
And ancient orchards of old mossy trees,
And wheat-fields waving in the summer breeze,
And rude old bridges, spanning clear blue streams,
And many a lillied pond that idly dreams
Under great trees; so that, for some small space,
I leave this wild uncultivated place,
And am again, oh, blessed word! a boy:
The golden wings of peace, contentment, joy,
Wave over me again, and soothe the soul,
Hushing the passions I cannot control.

NIGHT! Thou art lovely and magnificent,
When down from heaven thou silently has leant,
Soothing earth, sea, and sky to gentle sleep,
While summer-clouds and stars their watches keep.
Night! I have watched thee many a weary hour;
I have stood high on earthquake-rifted tower
Of granite mountain, in eternal snow,
And there have worshipped thee, and bended low
Before thy presence. Then thy stars were cold
And glittering, as the bright and heartless world.
Then sometime thou didst hang thy silver lamp
On the sky's wall; and like white flags unfurled,
Around the blue of heaven's star-tented camp,
The clouds shook in the wind, and with soft light
Thou fed'st thy lamp. Over unbounded plains,
The wolf-heart Indian's broad and dry domains,
I have beheld thee in thy every guise,
Where thy caress has often soothed mine eyes
To quiet sleep upon the rugged ground,
And now, O Queen! as thus I pace around,
Holding with thee this converse, thou dost seem
To speak to me, like voices in a dream.
Is it the tree-tops moaning their low dirge?
The sweet, soft murmuring of the air-sea's surge
Among their tremulous leaves? Oh, no: it is
Thy spirit whispering to the charmed trees,
And thus it findeth words:

The stars are mine; and when I rise
To bless the weary earth and skies,
Then they lift up their lids of blue,
And gladly gleam heaven's black robes through.

Their radiant eyes, that were quenched all day
By the tyrant sun, at my coming gray
Are lighted, and sparkle with glee again,
Until at the dawn my dark tides wane.

The woods are mine, when they sleep so still,
That their pulses hardly throb or thrill:
And when their hearts, deep, dark, and dim,
Are stirred, and sing their awful hymn.

The sea is mine, when the thick stars lie
On its calm breast and wink at the sky;
Or tempest frets it into waves,
And shakes the dead in their deep-sea graves.

The mountains are mine,—each snowy cone
That lifts like a prayer toward God's high throne;
And every cavern, dark and mirk
As those where the murderer does his work.

The mountains are mine,—around their peaks
I wrap my wings while the lightning leaks
From the gaping rifts of the thunder-rack,
And the starry snow has become jet-black.

The plains are mine, when they sleep as still
As a child that just has gained his will;
When I lift to the gale my broad, black sail,
And the winds behind my storm-ship wail.

The earth is mine, for my foe, the sun,
Continually circling her, runs on:
For many a long and weary age,
The sun and I our conflict wage:

And I am to overtake him yet,
When the earth will see his last long set:
When he will be quenched upon her brink,
And she will back to choas sink.

Then will I reign for ever and ever,
When the stars are all sunk in heaven's river;
It has been once,—it shall be again,—
For Time even now begins to wane.

I am a portion of choas, left
For long years over the earth to drift;
At times to be full of peace and calm;
Then alive with the lightning and thunder-psalm.

The earth will be my slave again,
But my victory will be all in vain;
There will be a brighter and better sphere,
Which I can never come anear.

While I shall hold Creation's shell,
Her myriad souls, I know full well,
Out of her cold, deep heart will rise,
And float like stars up to unseen skies.

And while over chaos and ruin I brood,
In the purple glooms of my solitude,
In heaven will God's great loving eye
Be the sun of a day that will never die.