Passion-Flowers (Howe)/Midnight

MIDNIGHT.

I love to walk the darknessOn the Midnight's folded arm,Between Earth's struggling currentsAnd Heaven's blue depths of calm;

And prove the ghostly terrors,Which, all too wild for sight,Throng on the teeming fancyAt the solemn noon of night;

And mark the mocking contrastOf the gentle and the loud,When all the powers of beingTo height and crisis crowd.

The saint that, on the housetop,Tells by the stars his prayer,Hears the rude BacchanalianProfane the slumb'rous air.

The golden hymn of silencePauses for his amen,But lo, his lips are palsiedBy some Erotic strain.

For midnight lends a passionTo all of soul and sense;The wine-cup grows more maddening,The music more intense.

Then swifter whirl the dancersAnd wilder plays the band,More ruthless throws the gamesterPerdition from his hand.

The thief has bolder daringTo force through bolt and bar,The man of blood more lightlyFollows his crimson star.

The wanton's haggard featuresGlow then, through all their paint,And paler, in his rapture,Turns the transfigured saint.

Friends who await the hourIn memory of the dead,Drink then the pledge of sorrowAnd break the solemn bread;

While the maiden, from her lattice,More timidly doth move,Oh! terrible is MidnightWith the thought of one we love.

Upon my brow and bosomLet holy lilies lie,By the child Jesus gatheredIn radiant infancy;

Then, when the midnight feverRushes through heart and brain,I hold them here, I press them there,And God is felt again.