Classic Poem

Like an ill-favoured thief, the murk hath crept
Into the air, and greedily devoured
Eve's last, wan smiles. One shaggy cloud which wept
Great puddling drops upon the ground, and show'red
Its tepid moisture, till the mists arose,
Earthborn, and, like a cloud, all reeking went
From out the meadows, where the saffron grows,
Up to the summer height—one shaggy cloud,
Which the tressed Morning from the east had sent,
Against her coming, to o'erspread and shroud
Earth's fruited bosom from the blist'ring sun.
Still hangs above the drowsy hills, quite spent
And wretched-looking; while the black fiend, Night,
In vales and hollow places 'reft of light,
Broods o'er the spoils he from the day hath won.
How dreamy-dark it is!
Men yawn for weariness, and hoard their gains,
While careful housewives drown the kitchen fires,
Then slip to bed to snore away their pains,
And bury for a time all low desires.
The plodding oxen, dragging creaky wains
O'er bosky roads, their ancient horns entwine,
Lick their huge joles, and think of bedded stalls,
And munching of sweet corn. The lick'rous swine
Huddled in routed turf, neglect the calls
And pinches of their young, and hide their dugs,
Swoll'n with a lazy milk, whilst timid sheep,
Far from their winter-folds of knotty fir,
Dream of lean wolves and bleatings in their sleep.

Yet there are those that oft the silence mock,
For life wings through the darkness everywhere,
And night's dull, ugly brood is all astir.
The flapping bat and hungry-snapping hawk
Now glut themselves with innocent, droning flies,
Whisked from the dingy commonwealth of air.
The loathsome toad, which foul infection breeds
And lep'rous sores, hops o'er the dusty walk,
And, in the hollows where the river lies,
The hoarse frogs sprawl among the bedded reeds,
And croak harsh ditties to their uncouth mates.
The moon-eyed owl unto the forest prates,
And greedy cranes and herons wade about,
Draggling the weedy stream in search of food—
While far around the darkling woods agree
To hide their dancing leaves and gloomy be.

This is the very hour when witches ride
Through barren air unto the elfish rout,
Where trickish spells and sorcery are brewed;
When jack-o'-lanterns o'er the quagmire glide,
Seen by the tipsy hind, who straightway thinks
Of alehouse uproar, and in fancy drinks
Great, cheering goblets of the beaded stout:
And them he follows until quite worn out
With perilous trudging o'er the hummocks damp,
When, all at once, they flicker off, and leave
The lazy lubber in the foggy swamp,
Knee-deep in oozing sludge. This is the hour
When fire-flies flit about each lofty crag,
And down the valleys sail on lucid wing,
Luring their spouses to the love-decked bower.

I see them glimmer where the waters lag
By winding bays, and to the willows sing;
And, far away, where stands the forest dim,
Huge-built of old, their tremulous lights are seen.
High overhead they gleam like trailing stars,
Then sink adown, until their emerald sheen
Dies in the darkness like an evening hymn—
Anon to float again in glorious bars
Of streaming rapture, such as man may hear
When the soul casts its slough of mortal fear.
And now they make rich spangles in the grass,
Gilding the night-dew on the tender blade;
Then hover o'er the meadow-pools to gaze
At their bright forms shrined in the dreamy glass
Which earth, and air, and bounteous rain have made.
One moment, and the thicket is ablaze
With twinkling lamps which swing from bough to bough:
Another, and like sylphids they descend
To cheer the brook-side where the bell-flow'rs grow.
Near and more near they softly come, until
Their little life is busy at my feet;
They glow around me, and my fancies blend
Capriciously with their delight, and fill
My wakeful bosom with unwonted heat.
One lights upon my hand, and there I clutch
With an alarming finger its quick wing:
Erstwhile so free, it pants the tender thing!
And dreads its captor and his handsel touch.

Where is thy home? On what strange food dost feed,
Thou fairy haunter of the moonless night?
From what far nectar'd fount, or flow'ry mead
Glean'st thou, by witching spells, thy sluicy light?

Thou mock'st at darkness, and thy footsteps are
Where gloom hangs thickest on the swart, damp earth;
And, like a thought, thou comest from afar
In fitful glee—say hadst thou e'er a birth?

Mayhap thou hast a heart which trembles now
For thy dear young, beneath this shining dome;
And fond affections which, I know not how,
Find in thy tiny frame a gentle home.
And mayhap, too, thy little lips could tell
Of am'rous meetings, and of ample bliss,
In green pavilions where thy loved ones dwell—
Go seek them now and give them thy fond kiss.

It flits, and disappears, perchance has found
A grave, and I have marred an innocent life;
Perchance 'tis with its mates, for, all around,
The air in fitful radiance is rife.
They gleam and shimmer in a guileless strife,
A heav'n of stars, sprung from the earth's warm breast,
Clad with inservient fire, and sprightly all,
Touched by no sorrow, by no cares oppressed!
The moving hours speed on apace, and fall
Like faded garlands in the lap of time;
Yet still the fire-flies sparkle ev'rywhere,
And seem like wandering Peris as they climb
Up through the gloomy vault of misty air.

At length the sky is flecked with dingy streaks,
And Morn comes striding o'er the eastern hills,
Muffled in angry trappings which foretell
A coming storm; and now each fire-fly seeks
Its distant home, to drink from leafy rills,
And feed on mulse and sweetest hydromel.
Hark to the chirrup and the tinkling bell!
Rude chanticleer now winds his drowsy horn
To the bleached darkness of the drizzly morn.