Poems (Sewell)/Reflections in a Starlight Night
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REFLECTIONSINA STARLIGHT NIGHT.
How glorious now doth all the scene appear;
How bright the ev'ning, and the sky how clear!
A silence deep and solemn dwells around;
Now ceases Clamour her tumultuous sound!
Now sleeps the Peasant in his homely cot,
His toils, fatigues, and hardships, all forgot:
He tastes that rest which industry procures,
And which the bed of down in vain allures.
Now rack'd with pain, the guilty wretch remains
Awake, alone, to agonizing pains:
In Nature's works, he stands a fearful blot,
And oh! her sweet repose shall reach him not!
If o'er his sense one transient slumber steals,
Some hideous woe his frighted fancy feels:
Perchance, to pointed rocks or desarts led,
He views the tempest blacken round his head;
Or cast into the deep's expanded jaws,
With struggles faint, his parting breath he draws;
Or in some dungeon, horrible, confin'd,
A thousand ghastly phantoms scare his mind.
"O touch me not," he cries, "Aveng'd thou art!
"Behold the dagger in my bleeding heart!
"Cast not those sad reproachful looks on me;
"Thou cou'dst not feel what I have felt for thee!"
Then wakes—starts up—yet still finds no relief,
But true despair for visionary grief.
Oh happy he, whom Virtue doth secure,
Whose spotless soul is like the heav'ns pure!
Thrice happy he, that never knew deceit,
Or felt his heart with one rude passion beat;
Whose passions mildly agitate his soul,
Like gentle gales, but ne'er tempestous roll;
Whose reason is the pilot to his way,
Guided by Truth's divine, eternal ray!
His slumbers shall be sweet, tho' tempests rise,
And the black deep shall meet the rattling skies!
Who makes it calm within, has ne'er a doubt,
Nor fears the storm that threatens from without,
The guiltless breast, the Pow'rs above will thank,
And dream of Happiness—upon a plank!
How bright the ev'ning, and the sky how clear!
A silence deep and solemn dwells around;
Now ceases Clamour her tumultuous sound!
Now sleeps the Peasant in his homely cot,
His toils, fatigues, and hardships, all forgot:
He tastes that rest which industry procures,
And which the bed of down in vain allures.
Now rack'd with pain, the guilty wretch remains
Awake, alone, to agonizing pains:
In Nature's works, he stands a fearful blot,
And oh! her sweet repose shall reach him not!
If o'er his sense one transient slumber steals,
Some hideous woe his frighted fancy feels:
Perchance, to pointed rocks or desarts led,
He views the tempest blacken round his head;
Or cast into the deep's expanded jaws,
With struggles faint, his parting breath he draws;
Or in some dungeon, horrible, confin'd,
A thousand ghastly phantoms scare his mind.
"O touch me not," he cries, "Aveng'd thou art!
"Behold the dagger in my bleeding heart!
"Cast not those sad reproachful looks on me;
"Thou cou'dst not feel what I have felt for thee!"
Then wakes—starts up—yet still finds no relief,
But true despair for visionary grief.
Oh happy he, whom Virtue doth secure,
Whose spotless soul is like the heav'ns pure!
Thrice happy he, that never knew deceit,
Or felt his heart with one rude passion beat;
Whose passions mildly agitate his soul,
Like gentle gales, but ne'er tempestous roll;
Whose reason is the pilot to his way,
Guided by Truth's divine, eternal ray!
His slumbers shall be sweet, tho' tempests rise,
And the black deep shall meet the rattling skies!
Who makes it calm within, has ne'er a doubt,
Nor fears the storm that threatens from without,
The guiltless breast, the Pow'rs above will thank,
And dream of Happiness—upon a plank!
Thou mighty Pow'r! from whom all causes spring;
Thou fountain head of all, and Nature's King!
That with one word did make those Stars—this Ball,
And with a word shall make those stars to fall!
Who form'd all objects—Darkness, Night and Day;
And at whose frown they all shall melt away!
Oh give me Grace, thy righteous will to do;
Give me a heart that's pious, just and true!
Thy gracious Spirit to my soul impart—
Teach me to praise Thee, glorious as Thou art!
So shall my slumbers unmolested be,
And sweet security descend from thee!
Thou fountain head of all, and Nature's King!
That with one word did make those Stars—this Ball,
And with a word shall make those stars to fall!
Who form'd all objects—Darkness, Night and Day;
And at whose frown they all shall melt away!
Oh give me Grace, thy righteous will to do;
Give me a heart that's pious, just and true!
Thy gracious Spirit to my soul impart—
Teach me to praise Thee, glorious as Thou art!
So shall my slumbers unmolested be,
And sweet security descend from thee!