Poems (Taggart)/An Apostrophe to Thought

by Cynthia Taggart

APOSTROPHE TO THOUGHT. Winter of 1826, Midnight.

    Come, dull Stupidity,
    From grief and anguish free,
With Somnus' semblance mark the nightly hours
    O! do thou soft pervade
    With still Lethean aid;
With healing balm and with oblivious powers

    Encompass my tired brain,
    And bid each mental pain
Fly with dread visions far from hence away.
    Away! imperious Thought!
    With keenest anguish fraught;
Thy aid I ask not, nor invoke thy sway!

    Leave the lone hours to rest,
    Obey the mild behest,
And swift, with silent haste, retire afar.
    Visit thy votaries pale,
    Who thee at midnight hail,
And by thy power sublime contemplate every star:

    The studious thee enjoys,
    Free from tumultuous noise,
When the fair moon rides in the vaulted blue;
    And by her paly light,
    Through the long, solemn night,
Pleased with thine aid, doth fancies strange pursue.

    But why dost hither bend?
    Thou canst not here ascend,
And mount the lofty pinnacles of fame;
    Thou canst not travel o'er
    Regions of learned lore,
Nor light thy torch from Genius' magic flame.

    Midst horrors wild and strange,
    Dost thou delight to range,
And plunge to misery's deepest depths thy way;
    And brood o'er dismal care,
    Portending wild despair,
Where ghastly visions gloomily dismay?

    For this art hither come,
    Far from thine ancient home,
The noble, wise, and philosophic realm;
    Dost quit all thou shouldst prize,
    Leave the ethereal skies,
To trace this drear domain, that sorrows overwhelm?

    Thou foe of the distressed,
    And torturer of the breast,
That thus usurp'st the hours to slumber given,
    Bid'st the pale victim lie,
    With haggard, unclosed eye,
And the sunk heart by keenest anguish riven;

    Far, far from hence, begone!
    Nor ever doom to mourn;
Leave, leave the lonely hours to calm repose;
    The agonizing brain
    Needs not thy keener pain,
Nor thy remediless, augmenting woes.

    Still dost without remorse
    Pursue thy cruel course,
And the consuming sufferer thus destroy;—
    Those pangs yet more malign,
    With griefs and woes combine;
Where once thou fostered'st happiness and joy?

    In solitude's sweet hours,
    Spent in the woodland bowers,
Ere yet dismantled of thy halcyon charm,
    Much wast thou loved, before
    Infantile days were o'er,
When thou could'st solace, and each grief disarm.

    Then thy abstracted joy
    Thrilled deep, without alloy,
And bound the opening mind affectionate to thee,
    With pleasure childhood beamed,
    When Thought benignant seemed,
And in the yielding heart wrote soft serenity.

    But now those days are o'er,
    And thou canst charm no more;
Now o'er dread Misery's train thou reign'st supreme,
    And mark'st each waking hour
    With thy distracting power;
And bid'st chill Horror ape thee in a dream.