Classic Poem

Night lay o'er the Heath of Hampstead—
One by one the merry-makers,
Romping, mad, accordion-playing,
Beer-inspired, were trotting townward.

All that afternoon I'd wander'd
'Mid the throng of Nymphs and Satyrs,—
Now at last the Bacchanalian
August holiday was over.

Sad my soul had been among them,
Envying their easy pleasures,
Since for many a month behind me
Wolf-like creditors had throng'd;

Since my name and fame were lying
In the gutter of the journals,
While the laws of Earth and Heaven
Seemed one vast Receiving Order!

Bankrupt to us in fame and fortune,
Wearily I walk'd and ponder'd
On the lonely Heath of Hampstead,
In the silence of the Night. . . .

Gently, one by one, the azure
Lattices of Heaven blew open;
Dimly, darkly, far above me,
God began to light His lamps:

Silent, still, a shadowy Presence
Felt not seen the Old Lamplighter
Pass'd above my head fulfilling
Feebly His appointed task.

How my spirit rose against Him!
How I curst His deaf-and-dumbness!
While above me twinkle-twinkle
Gleam'd those melancholy lights!

Far down westward, over Harrow,
Pensively the Moon was shining—
Opening her dark bed-curtains
With a wan and sleepy smile;

Soft and cool a breeze was blowing
Like the Earth's own breath in slumber,
Falling on my fever'd eyelids
With a dewy sense of tears.

Night was there and Night within me,
As with sad eyes gazing skyward
I beheld the bale-fires burning,
Multiplying, overhead!