by Septimius.
Originally published in Hood's Magazine (Henry Hurst) vol.6 #6 (Dec 1846).
All hail to thee, lone Silence! thou that wert
Twin-born with primal chaos and black night,
Ages before the hand
Almighty fram'd the world;
Ages before the fiery-flaming sun
Roll'd in his golden and perpetual cycle,
Exultant with young life,
In his bright op'ning reign:
Or ere the pale and softly-gleaming moon
Pour'd, o'er the sleeping earth, her silver floods,
Which light up hill and crag,
And dreary ruin'd pile;
And beautify, with all-transparent veil,
The sad decays the spoiler Time hath wrought;
Until each shiver'd heap,
As polished marble, seem.
All hail to thee, in this secluded hour
Of voiceless, pulseless, Even! Lull'd by thee
I calmly, sadly, muse—
In meditation tranc'd.
Now are all sounds of distant, lonely, floods,
Hush'd into silence; with the driving sighs
Of moaning Autumn-gusts,
And flitting wild birds' screams.
And nought now breaks the still enchantment round,
The lowing kine have long been driven to rest,
And weary man himself,
At last, hath found repose;
And peaceful slumbers now refresh his soul;
While wing'd oracular dreams,
Above him in his sleep,
Prefigure things unknown.
But, hark! throughout the Void,
Peal suddenly the sounds of vesper-bell,
Breaking the hush profound,
With their calm, holy, strain.
They tell of souls devoted to their God,
Watching o'er Time—Eternity's fleet birth!—
Lest he, so seeming ag'd,
Speed on them unawares.
They tell of souls, who think not of this world;
Who know that life begins but in the grave,
And deem earth but a place
Of trial for poor man.
Pray on, Pray on!—my to spell of silence broken,
I'll to my couch, to pray in spirit with ye,
Then dream of peace and bliss,
In mansions everlasting.
November, 1846.