Poems (Truesdell)/The Skeptic's Last Night

by Helen Truesdell

THE SKEPTIC'S LAST NIGHT.

 'Twas night, the midnight hour:
A thousand stars lit up the calm blue vault
Of heaven. The moon, so fitly named
The Regent of the sky, sat like a queen
Amid her glittering train, shedding her
Silvery rays upon a stately mansion,
One of England's proudest homes. Around were
Noble trees, yea, rugged oaks, that bore upon
Their brows the age of centuries; broad walks,
Reflecting back a thousand rays from many
Tinted shells; sweet flowers, whose gentle breath
Went floating out like incense on the air;
Bright founts and lovely streams were murmuring
On, like strains of distant music. All, all
Was hushed: no sound disturbed the sleeping
Beauty of the scene. But who is this, that
Comes with pallid cheek and feverish brow,
And gazes out upon the midnight sky,
As though he sought to read his destiny?
Silent, with folded arms, he stood: but now
He speaks—"Man's race is short, short from the cradle
To the tomb; and then he sleeps forever.
The Grecian sages thought not thus,—but they
Were 'dreaming bigots;'—The Christian's hope's an
Idle mockery."

   "Presumptuous man! vain dreamer
Of unholy dreams! away with such a creed!"
Wildly he started back, more pallid grew
His brow; for, lo! beside him stood a female
Form, clad in the cold habiliments of
Death. Then Memory, faithful to her trust,
Hushed o'er his guilty soul, and conjured
Up the past.

   "Dim, shadowy Form!" he murmured"—
Pale visitant of other days! what dost
Thou here? Say, dost thou come to mock me with
The past, or warn me of the future?"

                 Again
The Specter spoke—"Proud man! thy days are numbered:
Ere the sun shall rise and set and rise again,
Thou wilt be far hence; thy disembodied
Spirit will have passed into the presence of that God
Whom thou, with impious breath, hast dared to
Scorn. Ah! we shall meet again at that dread
Bar, where all are equal. And now, farewell,
Thou, who didst whisper in mine ear words
Poisonous as the deadly Upas tree,
Whose very shades are death!—didst rob my youth
Of innocence, betray my too confiding
Love, and leave me in a world so dark, that
Not one ray of light e'er pierced its dreadful
Gloom!—farewell! But ere I go, the spirit
Of an erring but redeemed mortal,
Bids me tell thee, thou mayst yet repent
And live."

    Slowly the dim form faded from
His sight. Silent he sought his lonely couch,
To toss all night in restless dreams.

    Next morn he sought his friends,
And with a mocking lip, that ill concealed
The heavy weight that preyed upon his soul:
He told his tale, but said he would survive the time.
That day his voice was heard amid his country's halls,
Charming a thousand hearts,
By its rare power of Eloquence.

    But, lo! 't was night:
Again he stood beside the casement;
Gazing upon the lovely scene' without.

    Sudden he shrank away,
As if it was too fair for him to look upon.
Muttering strange words, he fixed his eye
Upon the dial of the clock—
And when the hand reached twelve, he shrieked,—
And thus the Skeptic died.