Poems (Toke)/Night

by Emma Toke

For works with similar titles, see Night.

NIGHT.

IGHT, holy night! there is a spell in thee,
Which far exceeds the noontide glare of day.
Or pensive stillness of the twilight hour,
When thus, upon the wrapt and slumbering earth,
Thick darkness broods, with felt and awful power,
The shrouded stars presume not to dispel.
Oh! solemn is this noon of deepest night,
This pause of nature, like her hour of prayer.
'Tis silence, darkness all; no watery beam,
No ray of twilight trembles through the gloom:
No sound is stealing on the murky air,
To break the stillness of this midnight calm;
And Nature, like a watchful mother, seems
In silence bending o'er her children's sleep,
Scarce breathing, lest she break their deep repose,
Yet pondering in her own all anxious heart,
The lights and shadows of their onward way.

Fair is the morning hour of dewy prime,
When earth awaking bounds to life again,
And thousand voices greet the new-born day.
Fair is the sultry noon's unclouded glow,
The stirless air, the blue and placid sky.
And oh! how fair the fragrant calm of eve,—
Earth's peaceful sabbath,—nature's golden hour,—
When all is bright and balmy, pure and clear!
But none more fair, and none so felt within,
As thine, O Night! when thus enshrouded sleep
The countless orbs, that sometimes gem thy brow
With radiance fairer, purer than the day,
And thou hast laid aside thy queenly state,
As if to muse, all wrapt in robe of gloom.—
It is the hour of thought:—now wake to life
The depths that sleep enshrined in every heart,
Perchance 'mid brighter scenes unfelt, unknown;
But when the eye can meet no living form
On which to gaze, the mind unfettered turns
To seek that inborn light,—that mental beam,
Which brightest shines when all without is gloom.

As now I gaze into the night, and strive
To pierce that veil which mantles o'er her brow,
What thoughts and feelings,—yea, what living forms
Rise silently from yonder sea of gloom,
And sweep across the mind with magic power,
Mingling the future, present, and the past,
In one long waking dream. Oh, strange it is,
How from the inmost depths, where Memory sleeps,
At such an hour forgotten scenes arise:
At first like shadows, dim and undefined,
But brightening soon with clear though mellowed ray,
They live in thought again; till, link by link,
The chain of past events shines forth once more,
Unbroken and undimmed. Yea! all are there:
Familiar forms now throng the dark expanse;
Glad voices float upon the breeze of night,
And gentle laughter rings. Alas! too soon
The Past has fled: and now the Present comes,
With all its joys and sorrows, anxious cares,
And sunny hopes still shadowed by its fears.
Oh, who can muse upon the present hour,—
The hour of life, still passing as it comes,—
Nor feel insensibly the Future rise,
With all her train of deep entrancing thoughts,
And solemn feelings, sometimes bright and fair,
But ever touched with awe? There earthly Hope
Delights to weave her chain of rosy dreams,
And soothe too real woes with phantom joys;
And there Faith calmly lifts her trusting eye,
Discerning, 'mid the clouds that darken round,
A light no fear can quench, no sorrow dim;
For oh! from whencesoe'er those longings rise,
Which strive to pierce futurity, and reach
Beyond the veil which shrouds our coming years,
Each soaring thought at last must end in prayer:
For brightly though the distant haven shine,
And all is peaceful there, yet who can tell
How many a stormy blast and breaking wave'
May sweep their onward path to perfect rest?
It is a solemn thought. Oh! would that I
Could always 'mid the jocund hours of day
Think, feel as now! For at this stilly hour,
The meteor beam, which then too oft invests
Life's future scenes with bright though fading flowers,
Has passed away, and in its stead remains,
Not clouds and darkness, but a purer light,
Which shines undazzling now, yet calm and clear.
Oh, Night! when girded thus with starless gloom
Thou art a solemn teacher. Every breath,
That floats like music o'er thy echoing calm,
But deeper binds the spell which darkness wove,
And silence nurtured. Cold must be the heart,
That on thy shadowy stillness now could gaze,
Yet turn again, unsoftened and unmoved,
To mingle in the world without a sigh.

E.

September 22, 1836.