Poems (Truesdell)/The Skeptic's Last Night
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?"
AgainThe 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.