The Poetical Works of William Motherwell/A Night Vision
A Night Vision.
Lucina shyning in silence of the nicht;
The hevin being all full of starris bricht;
To bed 1 went, bot there I tuke no rest,
With hcvy thocht I was so sair oppressed,
That sair I langit after dayis licht.
Of fortoun I complainit hevely,
That echo to me stude so contrarously;
And at the last, quhen I had tumyt oft
For werines, on me ane slummer soft
Came, with ane dretning and a fantesy.
—Dunbar.
I had a vision in the depth of night—
A dream of glory—one long thrill of gladness—
A thing of strangest meaning and delight;
And yet upon my heart there came such sadness
And dim forebodings of my after years,
That I awoke in sorrow and in tears!
There stood revealed before me a bright maid.
Clad in a white silk tunic, which displayed
The beautiful proportions of her frame;
And she did call upon me by my name—
And I did marvel at her voice, and shook
With terror, but right soon the smiling look
Of gentleness, that radiant maiden threw
From her large sparkling eyes of deepest blue,
Did reassure me. Breathless, I did gaze
Upon that lovely one, in fond amaze,
And marked her long white hair as it did flow,
With wanton dalliance, o'er the pillared snow
Of her swan-like neck;—and then my eye grew dim
With an exceeding lustre, for the slim
And gauze-wove raiment of her bosom fair,
Was somewhat ruffled by the midnight air;
And as it gently heaved, there sprung to view
Such glories underneath—such sisters two
Of rival loveliness! Oh, 'twere most vain
For fond conceit to fancy such again.
The robe she wore was broidered fetouslye
With flower and leaf of richest imagerye;
And threads of gold therein were entertwined
With quaintest needlecraft; and to my mind
It seemed, the waist of this most lovely one,
Was clipped within a broad and azure zone,
Studded with strange devices—One small hand
Waved gracefully a slender ivory wand,
And with the other, ever and anon,
She shook a harp, which, as the winds sighed past,
Gave a right pleasant and bewitching tone
To each wild vagrant blast.
Meseems,
After this wondrous guise, that maiden sweet
Stood visible before me, while the beams
Of Dian pale, laughed round her little feet
With icy lustre, through the narrow pane;
And this discourse she held in merry vein;
Although methought 'twas counterfeited, and
The matter strange, that none might understand.
She told me, that the moon was in her wane—
And life was tiding on, and that the world
Was waxen old—that nature grew unkind,
And men grew selfish quite, and sore bechurled—
That Honour was a bubble of the mind—
And Virtue was a nothing undefined—
And as for Woman, She, indeed, could claim
A title all her own—She had a name
And place in Time's long chronicles, Deceit—
And Glory was a phantom—Death a cheat!
She said I might remember her, for she
Had trifled with me in mine infancy;
And in those days, that now are long agone,
Had tended me, as if I were her own
And only offspring. When a very child,
She said, her soothing whispers oft beguiled
The achings of my heart—that in my youth,
She, too, had given me dreams of Honour, Truth,
Of Glory and of Greatness—and of Fame—
And the bright vision of a deathless name!
And she had turned my eye, with upward look,
To read the bravely star-enamelled book
Of the blue skies—and in the rolling spheres
To con strange lessons, penned in characters
Of most mysterious import—she had made
Life's thorny path to be all sown with flowers
Of diverse form and fragrance, of each shade
Of loveliness that glitters in the bowers
Of princely damoisels,'—Nay, more, her hand
Had plucked the bright flowers of another land,
Belike of Faerye, and had woven them
Like to a chaplet, or gay diadem,
For me to wear in triumph—But that she
Had fostered me so long, she feared, I'd spoil
With very tenderness, nor ever be
Fit for this world's coarse drudgery and moil;
Did she not even now take leave of me,
And her protecting, loving arms uncoil
For ever and for ever,—and though late,
Now leave me to self-guidance, and to fate.
Then passed that glorious spirit, and the smile
She whilome wore fled from her beauteous cheek;
And paleness, and a troubled grief the while
Subdued her voice.—Methought I strove to speak
Some words of tender sympathy, and caught
Her small white trembling hand, but, she, distraught,
Turned her fair form away, and nearer drew
To where the clustering ivy leaves thick grew,
And shaded half the casement—There she stood,
Like a tall crystal column, in the flood
Of the fair moonshine, and right thoughtful-wise
She seemed to scan the aspect of the skies;
Sudden a tremulous tear filled either eye,
Yet fell not on her check, but dubiously,
Like dew gems upon a flower, hung quivering there;
And, like a love-crazed maiden, she half sang,
Half uttered mournful fancies in despair;
And indistinctly in my ear there rung
Something of years to be,—of dark, dark years,
Laden with sorrow, madness, fury, tears—
Of days that had no sunshine—and of nights
Estranged from slumber—of harsh worldly slights—
Of cruel disappointments—of a hell
That gloweth in the bosom, fierce and fell,
Which may not be extinguished—of the pains
Of journeying through lone and trackless plains
Which have no limits—and of savage faces,
That showed no trait of pity!
Then that maid
Stretched her long arms to heaven, and wept for shame;
And as upon her soul dim bodements came,
Once more, in veriest sadness, thus she said:
'I may not cheer him more! I may not breathe
Life in his wasting limbs, nor healthy fire
In his grief-sunken eye—I may not wreathe
Fresh flowers for him to gaze on, nor inspire
Delicious dreamings, when the paly host
Of cares and troubles weigh his spirit down,
And hopes delayed, in worse despair are lost;
Unaided, he may sink upon the path,
No hand of succour near, nor melting eye
To yield its pittance poor of sympathy;
Already, too successful have I weaved
My tiny web of folly; undeceived,
At length, he'll view its baseless fabrick pass,
Like fleeting shadows o'er the brittle glass,
Leaving no substance there ; and he may curse,
With bitter malison, his too partial nurse,
And charge her with his sufferings!’
So wept
That maid, in seeming sorrow, till there fell
From her lips Griefs volume-word—Farewell!
And then, methought, she softly passed away,
As a thin mist of glory on a ray
Of purest moonshine ; or like starlet bright
Sailed onward through the ocean of the night!
And then, meseems, I heard the wailing sound
Of a wind-harp afar, and voice of one
Who sung thereto a plaintive melody;
And some words reached me, but the rest were drowned
In dimest distance, and the hollow moan
Of the night-breezes fitful sweeping by;
Yet these stray words, ere while on earth they fell,
Told Hope had pitying smiled before her last farewell.
Then all grew dark and loveless, and afar
I saw the falling down of many a star,
As the moon paled in sorrow—And the roar
Of darkly tumbling floods I heard, that dashed
Through the deep fissures of the rifted rock—
While phantoms flitted by with ghastly mock,
And jeers malign—and demons on me glar'd
Looks of infernal meaning; then in silence
Troop'd onwards to their doom!
Starting, I broke
Sleep's leaden bonds of sorrow, and awoke,
Wondering to find my eye-balls red with tears!
And my breast heaving with sepulchral fears.