Classic Poem

NIGHT THE FIFTH

By Day, the Soul o'erborn by Life's Career,
Stunn'd by the Din, and giddy with the Glare,
Reels far from Reason, jostled by the Throng.
By Day the Soul is passive, all her Thoughts
Impos'd, precarious, broken, e'er mature.
By Night, from Objects free, from Passion cool,
Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births
Of pure Election, arbitrary range,
Not to the Limits of one World confin'd;
But from Etherial Travels light on Earth,
As Voyagers drop Anchor, for Repose.
Let Indians, and the Gay, like Indians, fond
Of feather'd Fopperies, the Sun adore:
Darkness has more Divinity for me;
It strikes Thought inward, it drives back the Soul
To settle on Herself, our Point supreme!
*

Hail, precious Moments! stol'n from the black Waste
Of murder'd Time! Auspicious Midnight! Hail!
The World excluded, every Passion hush'd,
And open'd a calm Intercourse with Heav'n,
Here, the Soul sits in Council, ponders past,
Predestines future Actions; sees, not feels,
Tumultuous Life; and reasons with the Storm;
All her Lies answers, and thinks down her Charms
What awful Joy? what mental Liberty?
I am not pent in Darkness; rather say
(If not too bold) in Darkness I'm embower'd.
Delightful Gloom! the clust'ring Thoughts around
Spontaneous rise, and blossom in the Shade;
But droop by Day, and sicken in the Sun.
*

Is it, that Time steals on with downy Feet,
Nor wakes Indulgence from her Golden Dream?
To-day is so like yesterday, it cheats;
We take the lying Sister for the same
Life glides away, Lorenzo! like a Brook;
For ever changing, unperceiv'd the Change.
In the same Brook none ever bath'd him twice:
To the same Life none ever twice awoke.
We call the Brook the same; the same we think
Our Life, tho' still more rapid in its Flow;
Nor mark the Much irrevocably laps'd,
And mingled with the Sea. Or shall we say
(Retaining still the Brook to bear us on)
That Life is like a Vessel on the Stream?
In Life embark'd, we smoothly down the Tide
Of Time descend, but not on Time intent;
Amus'd, unconscious of the gliding Wave;
Till on a sudden we perceive a Shock;
We start, awake, look out; what see we there?
Our brittle Bark is burst on Charon's shore
*

Must I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there.
Man is a Self-survivor ev'ry Year
Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow.
Death's a destroyer of Quotidian prey.
My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday;
The bold Invader shares the present Hour.
Each Moment on the former shuts the Grave.
While Man is growing, Life is in Decrease;
And Cradles rock us nearer to the Tomb.
Our Birth is nothing but our Death begun;
As Tapers wast, that Instant they take Fire.
*

Thus runs Death's dread Commission: " Strike, but so,
As most alarms the Living by the Dead"
Hence Stratagem delights him, and Surprize,
And cruel sport with Man's Securities.
The dreadful Masquerader, thus equipt,
Out-Sallies on Adventures. Ask you where?
Where is He not? For his peculiar haunts,
Let this suffice; sure as Night follows Day,
Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the World,
When Pleasure treads the Paths, which Reason shuns.
When, against Reason, Riot shuts the door,
And Gayety supplies the Place of Sense,
Then foremost at the Banquet, and the Ball,
Death leads the Dance, or stamps the deadly Die;
Nor ever fails the Midnight Bowl to crown.
Gayly carousing to his gay Compeers,
Inly he laughs, to see them laugh at him,
As Absent far; and when the Revel burns,
When Fear is banisht, and triumphant Thought,
Calling for all the Joys beneath the Moon,
Against Him turns the Key; and bids him Sup
With their progenitors, — He drops his Mask,
Frowns out at full; they start, despair, expire.
Scarce with more sudden Terror and Surprize,
From His black Masque of Nitre, touch'd by Fire,
He bursts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours.
And is not this triumphant Treachery,
And more than simple Conquest in the Fiend?
*

See, high in Air, the sportive Goddess hangs,
Unlocks her Casket, spreads her glitt'ring Ware,
And calls the giddy Winds to puff abroad
Her random Bounties, o'er the gaping Throng.
All rush rapacious; Friends o'er trodden Friends;
Sons o'er their Fathers, Subjects o'er their Kings,
Priests o'er their Gods, and Lovers o'er the Fair,
Still more adored, to snatch the golden Show'r.
Gold glitters most, where Virtue shines no more;
As Stars from absent Suns have leave to shine.
O what a pretious Pack of Votaries,
Unkennell'd from the Prisons, and the Stews,
Pour in, all opening in their Idol's Praise!
All, ardent, eye, each Wafture of her Hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious Jaws,
Morsel on Morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, thro' mad Appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still.
Sagacious All, to trace the smallest Game,
And bold to seize the Greatest. If (blest Chance!)
Court-Zephyrs sweetly breath, they launch, they fly
O'er Just, o'er Sacred, all forbidden Ground,
Drunk with the burning Scent of Place, or Pow'r,
Staunch to the foot of Lucre, till they die.

NIGHT THE FIFTH

By Day, the Soul o'erborn by Life's Career,
Stunn'd by the Din, and giddy with the Glare,
Reels far from Reason, jostled by the Throng.
By Day the Soul is passive, all her Thoughts
Impos'd, precarious, broken, e'er mature.
By Night, from Objects free, from Passion cool,
Thoughts uncontroul'd, and unimpress'd, the Births
Of pure Election, arbitrary range,
Not to the Limits of one World confin'd;
But from Etherial Travels light on Earth,
As Voyagers drop Anchor, for Repose.
Let Indians, and the Gay, like Indians, fond
Of feather'd Fopperies, the Sun adore:
Darkness has more Divinity for me;
It strikes Thought inward, it drives back the Soul
To settle on Herself, our Point supreme!
*

Hail, precious Moments! stol'n from the black Waste
Of murder'd Time! Auspicious Midnight! Hail!
The World excluded, every Passion hush'd,
And open'd a calm Intercourse with Heav'n,
Here, the Soul sits in Council, ponders past,
Predestines future Actions; sees, not feels,
Tumultuous Life; and reasons with the Storm;
All her Lies answers, and thinks down her Charms
What awful Joy? what mental Liberty?
I am not pent in Darkness; rather say
(If not too bold) in Darkness I'm embower'd.
Delightful Gloom! the clust'ring Thoughts around
Spontaneous rise, and blossom in the Shade;
But droop by Day, and sicken in the Sun.
*

Is it, that Time steals on with downy Feet,
Nor wakes Indulgence from her Golden Dream?
To-day is so like yesterday, it cheats;
We take the lying Sister for the same
Life glides away, Lorenzo! like a Brook;
For ever changing, unperceiv'd the Change.
In the same Brook none ever bath'd him twice:
To the same Life none ever twice awoke.
We call the Brook the same; the same we think
Our Life, tho' still more rapid in its Flow;
Nor mark the Much irrevocably laps'd,
And mingled with the Sea. Or shall we say
(Retaining still the Brook to bear us on)
That Life is like a Vessel on the Stream?
In Life embark'd, we smoothly down the Tide
Of Time descend, but not on Time intent;
Amus'd, unconscious of the gliding Wave;
Till on a sudden we perceive a Shock;
We start, awake, look out; what see we there?
Our brittle Bark is burst on Charon's shore
*

Must I then forward only look for Death?
Backward I turn mine Eye, and find him there.
Man is a Self-survivor ev'ry Year
Man, like a Stream, is in perpetual Flow.
Death's a destroyer of Quotidian prey.
My Youth, my Noon-tide, His; my Yesterday;
The bold Invader shares the present Hour.
Each Moment on the former shuts the Grave.
While Man is growing, Life is in Decrease;
And Cradles rock us nearer to the Tomb.
Our Birth is nothing but our Death begun;
As Tapers wast, that Instant they take Fire.
*

Thus runs Death's dread Commission: " Strike, but so,
As most alarms the Living by the Dead"
Hence Stratagem delights him, and Surprize,
And cruel sport with Man's Securities.
The dreadful Masquerader, thus equipt,
Out-Sallies on Adventures. Ask you where?
Where is He not? For his peculiar haunts,
Let this suffice; sure as Night follows Day,
Death treads in Pleasure's footsteps round the World,
When Pleasure treads the Paths, which Reason shuns.
When, against Reason, Riot shuts the door,
And Gayety supplies the Place of Sense,
Then foremost at the Banquet, and the Ball,
Death leads the Dance, or stamps the deadly Die;
Nor ever fails the Midnight Bowl to crown.
Gayly carousing to his gay Compeers,
Inly he laughs, to see them laugh at him,
As Absent far; and when the Revel burns,
When Fear is banisht, and triumphant Thought,
Calling for all the Joys beneath the Moon,
Against Him turns the Key; and bids him Sup
With their progenitors, — He drops his Mask,
Frowns out at full; they start, despair, expire.
Scarce with more sudden Terror and Surprize,
From His black Masque of Nitre, touch'd by Fire,
He bursts, expands, roars, blazes, and devours.
And is not this triumphant Treachery,
And more than simple Conquest in the Fiend?
*

See, high in Air, the sportive Goddess hangs,
Unlocks her Casket, spreads her glitt'ring Ware,
And calls the giddy Winds to puff abroad
Her random Bounties, o'er the gaping Throng.
All rush rapacious; Friends o'er trodden Friends;
Sons o'er their Fathers, Subjects o'er their Kings,
Priests o'er their Gods, and Lovers o'er the Fair,
Still more adored, to snatch the golden Show'r.
Gold glitters most, where Virtue shines no more;
As Stars from absent Suns have leave to shine.
O what a pretious Pack of Votaries,
Unkennell'd from the Prisons, and the Stews,
Pour in, all opening in their Idol's Praise!
All, ardent, eye, each Wafture of her Hand,
And, wide-expanding their voracious Jaws,
Morsel on Morsel swallow down unchew'd,
Untasted, thro' mad Appetite for more;
Gorg'd to the throat, yet lean and ravenous still.
Sagacious All, to trace the smallest Game,
And bold to seize the Greatest. If (blest Chance!)
Court-Zephyrs sweetly breath, they launch, they fly
O'er Just, o'er Sacred, all forbidden Ground,
Drunk with the burning Scent of Place, or Pow'r,
Staunch to the foot of Lucre, till they die.