Night: Poem by John William Inchbold

AN ODE.


O Queen and Spirit! beautiful and still,
Whose eyes the world's most wondrous things receive,
So that thy face we never wish to leave,
Since sweetness seems our hearts to fill,
As thou through parted lips dost breathe
Pure blessing of a holy dream, nor sheathe
The splendour of thy look. Can we pass by
Thy form and only gaze with upturned eye?
O mistress of all rare and subtle hues!
Whose depth and lustre fed alike by dawn
And lingering day, diffuse
Delight of dewy coolness freshly born,
For this fair world now clothed in living sleep—
Grant we may know how hope will soothe to rest
And never more may weep,
Since having found the secret land most bless'd,
We with our unrestrained clear eyes can see
How full the darkness may of beauty be.

O stay the throb of passion, strife be still!
Touched by the wand of light that comes from far,
Held by my Queen with tender hands, which are
More mighty than mankind's imperious will,
Being made of gentleness, benign as just!
Compacted still of love and loving trust,
And moulded into form most beautiful.
Lo here! the silent stream, of wonder full,
Forgets to move with upward gaze still bound,
When Night with all her wealth of stars,
World upon world with splendour crowned,
Descends—the red fire quenched in Mars:
The stream alone can feel the perfect bliss,
Alone can know how near the heavenly night
May come with gentlest kiss,
Yielding to waiting hopes a pure delight,
At which the winds of earth, subdued or still,
Fresh joy receive that strengthens all their will.

Now when the dust and heat of toil are past,
When work has ceased which blesses man so much
That bitter herbs for medicine none need touch,
When Vulcan's anvil cold has grown at last,
And weary Day exhausted pants for rest,
What joy to fall upon a sister's breast,
And know a twinborn playmate's peaceful love,
What joy for mortals who themselves may move,
Within the soothing shade of day's closed wings,
And scarcely feel the pulse of balmy night,
As she her pinion flings
From dreamy east to farthest western light!
But when the dawn resolves herself in day,
And freshens every power for sweetest song,
The heart of Night beating a new-born lay
Within the breast of morn, then tranced for long,
We catch the sparks of such ethereal fire
And worlds defy to vanquish pure desire.


We watched Thee, Night! as far away at sea
Our light ship cut the wave, all terror stilled,
And all surrounded by the breath of thee,
When far as eyes could reach night-jewels filled
The vessel's silvern track, and we have thought
Of the transmuting power thy moon had wrought,
Laughing to scorn Day's beauty, and the toil
Of men in all their unrequited moil,
When thou dost give such gems to those who rest
Upon thy will alone. The stars above,
Dim, fathomless and fair, have surely blessed
Our sight through those thin sails that onward move,
Quick glimpses sent at last to weary men!
A vision of more tender day!
A child's pure world with hope its denizen!
But strayed a barren while, and seeking ray
Like this of thine, O Night, to guide and bless,
And consecrate to song life's wilderness.

When all alone we stood upon the shore,
And wave on wave with still approaching lip
Had spoken soothingly, with more and more
Of treasured words, our hearts delight to sip,
Sweet cadences of everlasting song!
First tuned when Time was young and free from wrong,
And angel-harmonies alone were heard:—
Then passing, quick as lovers' thought or bird
To utmost grey, we found how gentle Night
Clasped sea and sky and earth unto her breast
Leaving none lone, but of such beauteous sight
Made all a breathing part, that we had rest
Within the sweetness of her calm grey eyes,
And knew the bliss that comes of perfect trust
The nectar clear of love's still paradise!
Most glorious making this our mortal dust;
And all the while Night's waves in undertone
Breathed solemn music ever rolling on.

There are dread moments when we hide our face,
Nor dare to gaze on thee while passing by
With all thy train of terrors: in the sky
Black clouds that dash in an impetuous race,
Whither alone thou knowest; on the dun earth
A mighty throbbing as of sorrow's birth,—
When headlong streams dart on—the heavens weep
And caverns howl as whirlwinds sweep
In anger to and fro—when forests moan,
As if unutterable woe were near—
When hoary mountains groan,
Titanic horrors making nature fear!
Then scarcely dare we look till thou art gone,
Revealing robe with woof of golden grey
And saddest warp mysteriously wan,
Thy soul of pity full, longing to stay
The terror of thine hand—then peace, deep peace!
When all the seething soul's wild passions cease.

Spirit of night! we know that long ago,
From thee we travelled, strangely clad with thought
That made our life mysterious, and wrought
Some sense of beauty with it, that the woe
We met might pass away.
We still have recollection of the lay
That trembled round about our darkened birth,
A song that filled all heaven, then touched the earth,
When joy in loveliness sprang forth
In these our mortal senses. Now we feel
They have a never-ending worth
With which no other gifts may vie, the seal
And token that when once again we rest
Within thy folded wing, there will not cease
Desire and aspiration, though most blessed
To hasten whence we came, and be at peace,
Life's primal glory shining all around
In splendour bathing this most holy ground.