NIGHT. To STELLA.

NIGHT . To STELLA Hannah More (1745-1833), author, philanthropist, and Yearsley's early patron. . 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 .