own contemporary, James Thomson, in that pathetic book, “The City of Dreadful Night,” which I think is less well-known than it should be for its literary beauty, simply because men are afraid to quote its words–they are so gloomy and at the same time so sincere. In one place the poet describes a congregation gathered to listen to a preacher in a great unillumined cathedral at night. The sermon is too long to quote, but it ends thus:
“O Brothers of sad lives! they are so brief;
A few short years must bring us all relief:
Can we not bear these years of laboring breath?
But if you would not this poor life fulfil,
Lo, you are free to end it when you will,
Without the fear of waking after death.–
The organ-like vibrations of his voice,
Thrilled through the vaulted aisles and died away;
The yearning of the tones which bade rejoice
Was sad and tender as a requiem lay:
Our shadowy congregation rested still
As brooding on that ‘End it when you will.’
