NIGHT. To STELLA. At this lone hour, when Nature silent lies, And Cynthia, solemn, aids the rising scene, Whilst Hydra-headed Care one moment sleeps, And, listless, drops his galling chain to earth; O! let swift Fancy plume her ruffled wing, And seek the spot where sacred raptures rise; Where thy mild form, relax'd in guiltless sleep, Forgets to think, to feel; may dreams of bliss Lull thy soft sense, nor paint the scene of woe, I lately told; think not my spirit near, Light airy shade, that would elude thine eye, And shrink to nothing, conscious of thy worth. Yet here I dare, in Fancy's boundless walk, Invoke thy Muse, and hail thy song sublime. Melpomene! thou sadly sighing maid! Great Queen of Sorrows, in majestic weed, Whose gayest airs are solemn sounds of woe; Thou who awak'st fair Stella's soothing lay, Soon as Aurora gilds the blushing East, O lend thy aid, while thy soft votary sleeps, And bid me boldly swell the artless line, Lend me her pen, and guide my rustic hand, To draw soft pity from the Tragic Tale, Where goading misery drives her ploughshare deep; Teach me to paint the tremors of the soul In sorrow's deepest tints; assist the sigh, And, with its breathings, swell the throbbing heart. The tear-clad eye, when softer passions rush T'assault the soul besieged by others' woe, That eye where pity tips the pointed beam With treble softness — Oh! that eye is hers. The hoary hermit, chill'd by frigid rules, Who totters on the hair-breadth verge of fate, And dies an age that he may live for ever, Would sudden stop, forgetful of the past, Nor heed the future, list'ning to her song; Her song, least part, her soaring spirit shares An early Heaven, anticipates her bliss, And quaffs nectareous draughts of joy sublime; Beyond yon starry firmament she roves, And basks in suns that never warm'd the earth; Newtonian systems lag her rapid flight, She pierces thro' his planetary worlds, And, eager, grasps creations yet to be. Ye busy World! what are your cobweb toils, Your Sisyphéan labours? Infant piles, To raise a bubble, which in air dissolves; You toil an age to grasp the shining dust, Death trips your heels, you throw it to the wind: "Ah! let your irons on their anvils cool," And list a while to Stella's moral strain; She'll teach thy eye in mental maze to creep, Timid and trembling, to explore the past; Alarm'd by her, the monitor within Shall aid thy search, and bring thyself to view. Examine deep; that secret arbitrator Shall give thee self-applause or deep remorse. Heav'n guard thee from that Harpy, never fill'd, Still, still insatiate as the bird of Jove, That deeply gores the breast for meals eternal, Nor knows a glut from ever-growing food. Still struggle, restless; sink to depths profound, Nor ever own a thought beneath immortal; As such Jehovah views thee in the dust, As such he'll waft thee to the plains of Heaven. What's Death? Like infants sick of senseless toys, We sink to rest — awake to love and joy; To love and joy awakes the ravish'd soul, Who liv'd to virtue, and who own'd a God. But, ah! too daring theme — Stella, assist! My humble spirit waits your social hand, Whose friendly beckon points to realms of bliss; See, Stella soars, nor heeds my plaintive note, Nor will the Muse assist my sluggard flight; With rapture, see, she clasps her fav'rite maid, And bids me fix where Science never dawn'd; Hard, hard command! and yet I will obey; Unaided, unassisted, will deplore That learning, Heaven's best gift, is lost to me. Cheerless and pensive o'er the wilds of life, Like the poor beetle creep my hours away; The journey clos'd, I shoot the gulf unknown, To find a home, perhaps — a long lost mother. How does fond thought hang on her much-lov'd name, And tear each fibre of my bursting heart. Ah! dear supporter of my infant mind, Whose nobler precept bade my soul aspire To more than tinsel joy; the filial tear Shall drop for thee when pleasure loudest calls. The dark sky lour'd, and the storms of life Rose high with wildest roar; no voice was heard, But Horror's dismal train affrights our souls. For see, from the dark caverns of the deep, Their griesly forms arise; the crown of Death Shone horribly resplendent. See! they seize A trembling, fainting, unresisting form, Which hourly met their grasp: Ah! spare her yet. See from the shore V— wafts his friendly hand; He's born to bless, and we may yet be happy: Quick let me clasp her to my panting heart, And bear her swiftly o'er the beating wave. In vain, in vain; some greater power unnerves My feeble arm; inexorable Death, Why wilt thou tear her from me? Oh! she dies, Tho' V—'s dear name had lent a feeble glow To her pale cheek, — she owns him, and expires. Tremendous stroke! this is thy pastime, Fate: If shrinking atoms thus thy vengeance feel, What the grand stroke of final dissolution? Believe me, gentle friend, I could complain; But what avails the deep repining sigh? How inexpressive of the heart-felt pang! When Heav'n afflicts, none should oppose the plea, For who shall hold the arm that thus has wreck'd me? Say, bright Instructress! soother of the soul, Whose flowing numbers, strong as Jesse's harp, Despair ne'er heard, but loathing left the soul; Dire fiend! whom sounds of joy could ne'er allure; O say, for strong-eyed Faith has borne you far Beyond the gloomy chambers of the grave; Speak loudly to my late corrected soul, That sure reward awaits the blameless mind; Else will I give the strenuous struggle o'er, Deny a V— as delegate of Heaven, Throw up your Angel mind, as painted shade, Or notion strong from early precept caught, Rove thro' the maze of all-alluring sense, And this side Jordan every hope shall fix: Mere ravings all — these crude ideas die, As Faith to Calvary's mount directs my view; Nor will I lose, thus humbled as I am, My dear-bought claim to Immortality. Excuse me, Stella! lo, I guideless stray, No friendly hand assists my wilder'd thought; Uncouth, unciviliz'd, and rudely rough, Unpolish'd, as the form thrown by by Heaven, Not worth completion, or the Artist's hand, To add a something more. Such is the mind Which thou may'st yet illumine; 'tis a task For Angels thus to raise the groveling soul, And bid it pant for more than earthly bliss. Then show Heaven's opening glories to my eyes; And I will view thee as the fount of light, Which pierc'd old Chaos to his depth profound, While all his native horrors stood reveal'd. Yet more I ask — Ah, Stella! aid my pen To paint the grateful rapture, to describe How the big heart, exulting, scarcely beats, And joy too vast oppresses all the frame! The extacy in languor leaves the soul, And all her slacken'd faculties relax. The web of Gratitude's so finely wrought, Thought hardly dares to touch it; soft'ning time, And frequent pauses, give it strength of growth, E'en to oppression. Oh, delightful pain! My soul wants firm support. The gloomy joy I once preferr'd, and thought the nobler choice, Has lost its relish; grand mistake of fools, In sullen self absorb'd! Lo! far estrang'd From social joy, I fix'd my woe-fraught eye Where riches blaz'd upon a murky soul, And serv'd to light its errors to the world; I met th'ungenial influence, bright, but cold, And, hardening by th'encounter, deep I sunk Abstracted — Scorn and Silence led the way, No matter whither: — The too gaudy Sun Shines not for me; no bed of Nature yields Her varied sweets; no music wakes the grove; No vallies blow, no waving grain uprears Its tender stalk to cheer my coming hour; But horrid Silence broods upon my soul, With wing deep-drench'd in Misery's torpid dews. That heart which once had join'd the laughing train, Whose guiltless rapture flew on Fancy's wing, Nor once suspected thus to feel the gripe Of iron-claw'd Despair, now yields to pangs, To agonies more exquisite than Death; That is — to live. O, Nature! shriek no more, I have no answer for thy thrilling voice; Go, melt the soul, less frozen in her pow'rs, And bid her weep o'er miseries not her own; Hold up the fainting babe who sighs its wants, So mutely incoherent; mark the head Which age and woe bend tremulous to earth; Whose lamp, now quivering in the socket, calls In haste for aid, ne'er finds it, and goes out. Plead thou for those, but never talk of aid For miseries like mine, which mock relief. Thus desperately I reason'd, madly talk'd — Thus horrid as I was, of rugged growth, More savage than the nightly-prowling wolf; She feels what Nature taught; I, wilder far, Oppos'd her dictates — but my panting soul Now shivers in the agony of change, As insects tremble in the doubtful hour Of transmigration; loth to lose the form Of various tints, its fondly cherish'd pride; Disrob'd like me they fall, and boast no more. Stella, how strong thy gentle argument! By the convinc'd, I scorn the iron lore, The savage virtues of untutor'd minds: In thy mild rhetoric dwells a social love Beyond my wild conceptions, optics false! Thro' which I falsely judg'd of polish'd life. This is the sullen curse of surly souls, To disbelieve the virtues which they feel not. Ah, Stella! I'm a convert; thou hast tun'd My rusting powers to the bright strain of joy: My chill'd ideas quit their frozen pole Of blank Despair, and, gently usher'd in By grateful Rapture, meet thy genial warmth: 'Tis more than joy, or joy to an extreme; Then teach my honest heart to feel more faint, More moderate in her grateful change, or lend Fair Elocution, who the Mimic aids, To paint in brightest hues the unfelt joy. Accept the wild and untaught rapture, form'd From simple Nature, in her artless guise; Yet in its wildness charming to excess To souls like thine, distasteful to the vain, Who relish nothing honest; nothing love But flattering strains, trick'd out with every art Of gaudy Eloquence, and trim Deceit.