Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/Moonlight
MOONLIGHT.
Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me:Since the great princes of the world, confin'dWithin the pomp and pageantry of state,Deny thy presence, to whose searching eyeThe world, and its ambition, is a dream,And all its glorious and loud-sounding pomp,Charmful to sense, well weighed in thy ear,But musick to a spectacle of woe;Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me:I offer thee my heart, and with it too Such entertainment as that heart can give,A fellowship of thought, a deep desire,E'en to the verge of madness, to pursueThe track of meditation, whilst the Moon,Emerging from the lightly-flying clouds,Laughs in her pomp, and, with her palest light,Sits Arbitress in the mid plains of Heav'n;Come then, diviner Muse, and dwell with me.
What hinders, but, with sad and silent feet,Hands in each other lock'd, and eyes cast down,On which the cloud of Meditation sits,We wander o'er the lawns, and seen of none,Amidst the pale dominion of the Night,Hold converse with the habitants of Heav'n?
Now Silence is in air, and sound is none:Save, where the owl from out her ivied bow'rHoots joyous at the Moon, and sprinkled stars,That shine, like di'monds, in the blue serene:Blest harbingers of bliss, and beacons fair, That guide our wand'ring footsteps through a world Of errour, that our falt'ring feet beguiles; I gaze on you with love, and rising hope, That when the mass of this empoised globe Is purg'd by fire, I, rising with the host Of countless spirits to your utmost sphere, Shall wake the Song of Morning, and admit My sequent charge to the Archangels' gate. O, what a dross upon our earthly robes In that assuaging furnace shall be lost! Pride, avarice, and lust; with all the bane Of envy, the malignant scum, that chokesThe fountain of sweet thought; with direful hate, And ill-advised anger, that bedims The Sun's bright presence in this balmy world. There too is Night, where the Archangels dwell; But Night serene, unvisited by storms, And fed with golden cressets from the hand Of Love immediate, prodigal of truth. Thy Sister too is there, O silver Moon, Thy primal Sister, from whose image fair Thy form was taken; there too Hesperus,The unalloyed lamp, that wakes the Eve;And that pure star, that, orient to the day,From out the bosom of sad Night, displaysHis kindling fire; lights, too, numberless,As are the leaves of Autumn, or the sands,That pave the margin of grey Ocean's tide.For what is this brave sphere, and perfect round,But image and brief abstract of the space,That shines above, wherein the Angels dwell,And with celestial colloquy divideThe Seasons, as they pass, of day and night,As do the wise and good in this our sphere?So let us talk till morning; tho' alone,With Angels let us talk, and with the stars,That shine, as eyes, upon this lunar world,Diverging upon day, ere yet the air,With fragrance of the dewy Morn embalm'd,Strike on our sense, and touch the faulted ghost,That wanders from its deep sojourn, with aweOf Proserpine, that to her biding calls, And love, reluctant to forsake its haunt;They follow, as the falcon to the lure.
What soul, that lives, from off this upper stageHas down descended to the gate of woe,Where Cerberus, the cruel worm of Death,Keeps watchful guard, and with his iron throatAffrights the spirits in their pale sojourn?What soul, that lives, yet living, has ta'en flightFrom off the fenced platform of the world,And, borne on the soft pinions of the Spring,Or the sweet Summer, to the blissful soilHas view'd the planets from the edge of Heav'n?Or with a shorter wing the flight of doubtHas flown, uncertain, to that veering realm, That middle empire of th' inconstant air,(A flight, that must be ta'en in Moons eclips'd,)Wherein the Spirits, neither bad nor good,That know no measure of their fruitless time,Waste time and hope in their unhoped change?No soul has flown unto the gate of woe, Or to the blissful soil, or brush'd the shoreOf Limbo with its wings; or flown, and liv'd:But yet intelligence from these has come,By angels, and pale ghosts, and vexed fools,That, straying as they wont, were blown athwartThe nether world, from the oblivious poolScarce 'scaping, on our scornful marge to land;Thence to be blown by ev'ry idle wind,Their tale half told, with a new flight of fools,Eclectick, to the planetary void.But, be it well advis'd, the learned earAlone can taste their mission, or the eyeOf Wisdom their approaching steps foretell:Thou, then, O Muse, beneath the burning starGuide me in converse with angelick minds,And with the fleeting spirits, and protectMy soul, unus'd, from the vain talk of fools.
Awhile, O dear Companion of my steps,Awhile to this seclusion let us pass,Where, underneath the laurel and the yew, The owl loud hooting to the frosty air,Reposing in this shade our dewy feet,We may observe the Chariot of the MoonWheel her pale course through the mid plains of Heav'n.Link we our souls unto her burning wheels,And, in her flaming orbit, let us passO'er sea and land in our entranced thought!Oh me, what a prodigious height we soarAbove the bright expanse; how trifling seemThe little aims and troubles of the world,That with their flimsy bondage yet enthrallGreat souls, of birth to win the arched Heaven!Where is the speck, for which great Cæsar fought,For which great Julius in the Senate died,The sceptre of the World, so call'd by him,Who led Æneas from the flames of Troy,Through woe and shipwreck to Lavinia's coast?Tell me, O Muse, if any eye can tell,Where is the godlike Alexander's march,The king of kings, the horned Ammon's son,Spoiler of Greece, that, stabbing Persia's heart, Wash'd his soil'd axles in the Indian sea?Where is that sea? or where, indeed, the world?The boundless world, by the great Poets sung?A kingdom? or a province? or a field?A speck, that the exalted mind can scarceDiscern, amid the wilderness of air!How pleasant, to consider at his toilThe pale Geographer, with wakeful thought,The compass in his hand, the open pageOf some great ancient tracer of the hillsAnd rivers from their source, before him laid,With careful hand adjusting to each kingHis portion of pass'd earth, and marking wellWhat here to Greece or Artaxerxes 'long'd:O, this is lunatick, and well deservesThe sounding lash, (cruel expedient,And ill-abus'd to heighten Nature's woe!)If the fair picture of this insect worldWere well presented to our purged thought,And man taught well on what small stage he play'd.But hold the abuse of passion here has sway; Nor let our startled Nature in amazePut aught dishonour on the learned toil,That keeps a Rennel from his balmy sleep!
Then now, O Muse, alighting from the carOf that pale traveller, the crescent Moon,Wakeful Diana, let us sit, and think,By the bright glow-worm's lamp, that twinkling playsUpon the dewy grass, what causes leadThe unembodied spirit to appearIn semblance of its person, to dislodgeClear courage from the startled hearts of men?Love opes the gate of Erebus; and GodPermits the streaming spirit to ascend,Impatient of its woe, the while the MoonBeguiles the over-dreaming Night, and sinksThe fair Creation in a deep repose.Then walk the silent Spirits to the bedsOf Lovers, on whose lids the tears are wet,And, waking their o'er-wearied sense, presentThe image too belov'd, with gentle hope And soft assurance of renew'd delight,When Death shall lead them through the World's sad ⟨gate.⟩Revenge, too, and immortal Pity drawThe Spirit from its home, where'er it be;To wander by the glimpses of the Moon,And overcome the guilty with the sightOf re-appearance in the form of woe:Or else to warn the soft and trusting soul,That in its safety joys, and fondly sleepsUpon the edge of peril, of new woe,That shall awake it to eternal doom.By rivers, and on lawns, in cypress shades,In monumental yards, and ivied towers,Whilst the owl hoots to the uprising firesOf Hesperus, they haunt, and thence divideUpon their sev'ral errands, till the lamp,The harbinger of Morn, awake the East.Kings, Poets, Virgins, Warriors, whose renownHas fill'd th' expansive circle of the World,And Shepherds, that of love disastrous died; In armour, in soft stoles, in peasant weeds,Or in the robes of thought, with laurel crown'd:Touch'd by the dream of Life, they re-ascendFrom their oblivious haunt, and feed their senseWith expectation of the matin ray.Not less in number, than the nascent starsThat shine upon their woe, or the soft crowdsOf Daffodils, that in the early SpringAwake the hill of Mountfield to delight:But long ere Morn with her awak'ning trumpDisperse the shadows of thin night, they flee,Thick as Autumnal leaves upon the shoreOf Vallombrosa, at Proserpine's call,And warn'd by Phosphor, to their penal home.Ah, hapless Spirits! but the day shall come,When Mercy on that silent shore shall reign,And that too-troubled dream of endless woe,In which the senses wander, as a pool,Conclude in bliss, amid immortal bow'rs!
I question then, O Muse, in love divine,Where that immortal Spirit*[1] may abide,That in his just vocation of this world,With favour of the King, maintain'd the swayOf jurisprudence in this triple realm?Well known to thee: that, in his aged thought,With Homer and great Danté did converse,And sweet Euripides, whose mournful songFlows in his numbers, like the silver Po,In weeping tribute to the Adrian sea[2].For since the stars have shed discursive light,With favour, on our globe, no greater mindE'er sat in judgement on the thoughts of men,Or brought its noble faculties to bearWith more advantage on the publick weal:In thought, in word, in action ever just:Shield of the Poor; and, rising for his King,Th' upright defender of His awful throne. Then, oh, may God forsake him not in death!But that pure Spirit, that on cloudy EarthStood faithful to his King, and still upheldHis gracious Master's cause, be crown'd with light,And in the fields of Æther sit, inclos'dWith glory, on a sempiternal throne!
Led by his hand, I first essay'd to walk,O dear Companion of my earliest steps,With thee, O Muse; and from the beams of MornTo the pale twilight sought thy converse sweet.Whatever in old Greece or Rome was done,Or else recorded of those actions pure,From thee I learnt, and from his counsel sage.Grave was he, and severe; but gentle too;And underneath a rough exterior hidA heart, which pity melted into tears.Farewell, my Master, and my earliest Friend!But not farewell of thee the memory;Since all I am in fortune, or in rank,In thought, or my inheritance of fame, Bating my nature, to thy care I owe;I should be viler than the dog, that tearsThe hand that fed him from his earliest youth,If I forsook thee, or thy gen'rous cause:The Seasons may pass on, and blanch my head,And wither my shrunk cheek, and paint a mapOf woeful age upon my wrinkled brow;But 'till the tomb outshuts me from the day,And time disparts me from the things, that were,Thy memory shall unimpair'd remain,Boundless, as I must still be less, than thee:While Spring shall for her blossoms be desir'd,Or Summer for her sweets, while Autumn paleWith fruitage shall be crown'd, or Winter ruleIn storms and tempests the dejected year,So long, O my first Master, while I live,Shall I forget not either thee or thine.
Where now is Homer? or great Virgil where?Or in what shades does Ariosto walk,That with Orlando's madness charm'd the world? Where now is Danté? in what region pureOf that unbounded world he sung so well?Or Petrarch, that to love was sworn to death?Or Tasso, in whose stately verse we seeWhatever the great Roman was before?Where is Malvezzi, in whose bitter senseThe World may smile at its own Tragedy?Or, if we turn to England in our thought,Tell me, where Chaucer may be found? or whereSweet Spenser, that from rebels fled to death,His heart quite broken with the faulty time?Where now may Milton meditate? or he,That sung the praises of a country life,Himself condemn'd in cities to abide,The rebel's foe, forsaken by his king,Ingenuous Cowley? but, above them all,Tell me, O Muse, for thou alone canst tell,Where is immortal Shakspeare, at whose birthGreat Nature was expended to the lees,And Death forsook his empire o'er the world?Or that extravagant and erring soul, That fled in youth from out the bounds of Time,Since nothing here was equal to his thought[3]?May God forgive him! wheresoe'er they be,Or in the Moon, or in the sprinkled stars,Dividing day and night with punctual love,Or else laid up within the silent. Earth,To bud abroad, like flow'rets, in the primeOf Summer, when the wakeful trump shall blow;This I pronounce without the awe of fear,Time, were it lengthen'd out beyond the space,That yet has pass'd o'er the created globe,Redoubled to our sense, shall never yieldA harvest of such spirits to our hope.When Phœbus to his billowy inn retires,And Hesperus takes up the pleasing toilOf giving light to this umbrageous world,A thousand stars, inferior but divine,Then turn our darkness into second day:But in this intellectual world, our nightIs boundless prodigality of shade, Shade without end, that no expectance knowsOf beamy Morning to the lapse of time.So men have thought; whose thinking is held wise:May God avert this prophecy from truth!
Tell me, O Muse, beneath this silent Moon,This Moon, that now beguiles us, as we sit,While to our wakeful ear sweet PhilomelFrom out the lower woods is chanting now,Tell me what cause, that in this later age,Wherein by fortune we are placed here,The souls of men, beneath this equal sky,Should thus be spoil'd of their inheritance?Are not the Seasons lovely, as before?Do not the glancing lights of Heav'n persuadeWith eloquence, as when of old they beam'dOn those wise heads, that now in marble rest?Witness, O Moon, the fair and primal light,That on the forehead of sweet Ev'ning burns,And lights the midnight with a lamp of love,(That now hast call'd me from my sleepy bed, To walk beneath the shadows of thy beams,)For universal Nature be thou pledge,That all the works of God are equal fair,As when created at the birth of time!Doubtless they are, for, what from God proceeds,Can never know decay, but wheel their orbs,Or in their stations stand, with lovely light,Uninjur'd, unimpaired, unalloy'd:But in the minds of men, by sin defac'dFrom their original brightness, change has foundA dwelling, though exil'd from Nature's works.So is there moral blight, as in the airThe clouds of insects wither leaf and bud.And now, O Muse, throughout the Poets' worldGreat fault I find in musick, and in speech,And in conception of their fabled thought.For all is false so novelty persuadesTo aim at greatness, far beyond their grasp,A phantom, that but lures them to decay.Some with new measures trick the greedy ear,That would disdain the musick of the stars, Because, forsooth, it is of ancient date:Some with such speech beguile the wond'ring time,That if the triple-mouthed dog of HellShould howl a leash of languages at once,Beneath the doubtful and eclipsed Moon,His speech were plain simplicity to theirs:And for their thought, O Jupiter! whate'erIs base and retrograde from ancient time,Wherein the minds of men were clean dispos'd,That reigns in them complete and absolute.This for the worse: but some there are, O Muse,That, like the wakeful Nightingale we hear,With fitful musick charm the wand'ring time.Praise be to them: and let the ill expire,Like falling meteors, in the depth of night.
How many tubes are levell'd at thy orb!How many eyes are gazing with despairFrom cells of madness at thy silver beams,Wakeful Diana! that o'ersway'st the seas,And of the tides of passion reignest queen. Yet long they shall not gaze, or idly weep:For now the glow-worm pales his twinkling fire;The Nightingale is mute; and grey-ey'd MornStands tiptoe on the silv'ry mountain's top:Farewell, O Muse: and thou, sweet Moon, farewell,'Till Night again shall give thee to my view.
- ↑ Edward, Lord Thurlow, Chancellor of England.
- ↑ This alludes to the Chorus, translated by the late Lord Thurlow, from Euripides; which is printed at the end of this Poem.
- ↑ The great, but unhappy Chatterton.