Well--this was the Song of the Sorrowful True: A rip of a Muse--but it gives her view. Curt and clear tho', did the touches fall, Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole: Are you with me still? Can you check a flout? Then stretch a will to hear it out?
O, what hangs so leaden on the brow of Night, As if grim Darkness 'pon herself had bred, To make a second and a direr gloom? What wrestles so the advent of the Light, Whence from yon paths the white stars tread Should visioned peer its orient bloom?
What thrills, withal, do baffled heave, Then urge anew against the serried Dark, At such beseech, their silent suit? What muttered rolls half-halting cleave These omened airs that still hang stark, As big with what they dare not bruit?
But yet it lifts, thro' huddling blurs, The eager Light. Lo, Day saddles the white Dawn, At heel his troop, close-wheeling, spurs, Unto his banner world-wide thrown, Each waft, his way. Close Night unhoods; No more beneath her grim gaze shrinks, But featured fair, in tribute ruds Each nether thing, and lifesome drinks.
But, O, scene-painting Light, what stage is yon? Dim-figured tho', what grim play breeds? Troy's second act? Where Hector stout, some Thetis' son, The deadly phalanx girds and leads?
What fatal Beauty bears in hand With strumpet's lure this sore divide? For lo, her brow, to venal brand, Reads fierce with lust of worldly pride!
Why wears true Grace so blanched a cheek? What things o' Night do rouse for prey, Confound with grim and loathsome reek The balmy breath of youngling Day?
What lists be those? What dirges wail? Why drags white Peace yon gory pall? I see great Mars in flame-knit mail, I hear the fierce god's buglers call.
And gleamy steel from scabbard flies, War's every hound is red at mouth, No belching throat but havoc cries, Would drench in blood the Summer's drought.
Out, Sense! some trick is here of phrenzied Night; These clamors wind no human breath, But ghostly haunt yon winsome light The phantom shades of legioned Death.
And yet yon orb is surely Day's: The Land re-speaks him, and his glass, the sea; All tongues at one, no witness stays, But owns his line observantly.
Nay, flung wide is now the portaled East; Behind, before, Light's lofty welcome burns, Whose cheer wide-spread for Most and Least, Repledged, alone, his host-call earns.