Poems of Felicia Hemans in The Winter's Wreath, 1830/The Song of Night
The Song of Night.
BY MRS. HEMANS.
Abwarts wend' ich mich zu der heiligen, unaussprechlichen, geleimnissvollen Nacht. Fernab liegt die Welt, in eine tiefe Gruft versenkt; in den Saiten der Brust weht tiefe Wehmuth. Fernen der Erinnerung, der Kindheit Traume, der ganzen Lebens Freuden und Hoffnungen kommen in grauen Kleidern, wie Abendnebel nach der Sonne Untergang.
Novalis.
I come to thee, O Earth!
With all my gifts:—for every flower sweet dew,
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.
Not one which glimmering lies
Far amidst folding hills or forest-leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.
I come with every star:
Making thy streams, that on their noon-day track
Gave but the moss, the reed, the lily back,
Mirrors of Worlds afar.
I come with Peace; I shed
Sleep through thy wood-walks o'er the honey-bee,
The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee,
The hyacinth's meek head.
On my own heart I lay
The weary babe, and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.
I come with mightier things!
Who calls me silent?—I have many tones—
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans
Borne on my sweeping wings.
I waft them not alone
From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,
Till the bright day is done.
But in the human breast
A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong in their sweetness from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.
I bring them from the past:
From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn,
From crush'd affections, which though long o'erborne,
Make their tone heard at last.
I bring them from the tomb:
O'er the sad couch of late repentant love,
They pass—though low as murmurs of a dove,
Like trumpets through the gloom.
I come with all my train:
Who calls me lonely?—Hosts around me tread,
Th' intensely bright, the Beautiful, the Dread—
Phantoms of heart and brain!
Looks from departed eyes,
These are my lightnings!—filled with anguish vain
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft controul
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am th' Avenging One!—the Armed, the Strong,
The Searcher of the soul!
I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest-birth
Of Memory, Thought, Remorse:—be holy, Earth!
—I am the solemn Night!