Poems (Lewis)/The Consoler

by Matthew Gregory Lewis

THE CONSOLER.

 

It seemed, as Nature's flame were dead!—No beam
From Sun or Moon diffused its chearing gleam
O'er that dark sky, at morn which seemed so fair,
It thence seemed darker now. The mirky air
Close, thick, and lowering, with its burthen prest
The spirits down, and clogged the labouring breast.
The birds were silent on the leafless spray;
And wild and waste the soul's Elysium lay,
Spoiled of its floral treasure. Cankerous Want
And Sorrow's worm had killed Health's blooming plant:
Hope, the fond sun-flower, turned no more its eye,
Where orient lustre fired the eastern sky:
The Primrose, Youth, was dead, untimely dead;
The Lily, Virtue, lived, but drooped its head:
And Bliss [that Empress-Rose, whose odorous power
And blushing cups at Morn's delicious hour
Poured on my senses from its emerald seats
A blaze of beauties and a cloud of sweets].
Now, lost its glowing gems and green attire,
Met my sad eyes a rude unsightly briar,
Menaced my hand with thorns, as near I drew,
And wept its ravished flowers in tears of dew.

Oh! I was sad at soul!—No aid was nigh,
No present joy, no future hope!—Mine eye
Where-e'er in suppliant anxious search I turned,
'Twas anguish, 'twas despair!—My bosom burned,
My heart was broken! Now in sullen mood
And dull dark apathy I silent stood,
Like one to marble changed: and now again
Wild Memory flashed her torch athwart my brain,
And fired it into madness. Then the ground
I struck with throbbing front, and scattered round
Locks of torn hair; and still in frantic tone
Of mingled rage and pain, half shriek, half groan,
I raved of honest hearts with treachery paid,
Of perjured love, false Friends, and trust betrayed,
And curst in bitter grief and fury vain
Man's flinty heart, and woman's fickle brain.

When lo! as thus in maniac state I lay,
A Matron tow'rds me won her easy way^[1].
With solemn step She moved: Her robes of white
Of vestal-make, though not so dazzling bright,
Were pure as Virtue's own and o'er her head
A cyprus veil in decent guise was spread,
Fixt on her forehead by a sacred wreath,
And past in graceful folds her chin beneath.
Inspiring awe, but awe unmixed with fear,
Calm was her cloudless eye: Her brow, so clear
From wrinkles, spoke [though pale] a heart, which ne'er
Had known the withering touch of guilt or care.
A bowl, around whose brim the poppy reigned,
In her right hand She bore: Her left sustained
A mirror, on whose polished breast were shown
A thousand mingling shapes of things unknown,
Where Fancy bade the enraptured thought unite
All that was pure and precious, fair and bright.
Yet what those objects were, in vain mine eyes
I strained to know; For still would mists arise,
Which, o'er the crystal surface as they played,
Confounded light with light, and shade with shade.
Yet Oh! so beauteous showed those clouded views,
So bright those doubtful forms and blended hues,
I thought, while gazing on their lines obscure,
All witnessed pomp seemed mean, all dreamt-of wealth seemed poor!

She waved her hand; the clouds disperst!—'tis true,
The gaudy Sun no dazzling lustre threw
Athwart Heaven's vault; but that clear tranquil Grey,
Whose sober hue attends on closing day,
Stole o'er the skies, eye-soothing!—On, the Dame
With lofty head and port majestic came;
And as She past, oft cropt some drooping flower,
Whose beauties bloomed unmarked in sunless bower,
Till plucked by Her, then first perceived the eye,
Its form how graceful, and how rich its dye.
As on She moved, Want, Sorrow, Pain, and Care
Fled from her glance, and sought less sacred air.
Soothed by her voice, inveterate Malice poured
His arrows at her feet, and broke his sword.
Deep Slumber bound the Passions' stormy train;
No more did Slander hiss, or hissed in vain:
And where that Matron's hallowed step once trod,
Envy herself with flowers oft drest the sod.

With awful hope I gazed, while near She drew,
And from her bow! on my parched forehead threw
Some opiate drops.—Oh! then how swift my soul
Cast off her burthen! Grateful languor stole
O'er all my frame, and soon my temples round
Sleep with soft hand her wreath of poppies bound.
Yet ere I sank to rest—"Oh! Thou," I said,
"Pain's readiest balm, and Sorrow's surest aid,
Whose power can every pang and care repell,
Oh! Friend of Misery, deign thy name to tell!"—

I paused.—Her gracious smile consent revealed;
With holiest kiss my weary eyes She sealed,
And while her lips inhaled my sighing breath,
Softly She whispered—"Friend, my name is Death."—

 

1. Gray.