THE PROPHETESS.
n the deep silence of the midnight hours,
I call upon ye, oh ye viewless powers!
Before whose presence mortal daring cowers.
I have subdued ye to my own stern will,
I fear ye not; but I must shudder still,
Faint with the awful purpose ye fulfil.
Not for myself I call the æther-born,
They have no boon my being doth not scorn—
Wholly and bitterly am I forlorn.
Dearly is bought the empire of the mind;
It sitteth on a sullen throne, designed
To elevate and part it from its kind.
Long years my stricken soul has turned away
From the sweet dreams that round my childhood lay:
Would it still owned their false but lovely sway!
In the dark grave of unbelief they rest,
Worthless they were, and hollow, while possest.
I am alone—unblessing, and unblest!
Knowledge is with me—guest that once received
Love, hope, ambition, are no more believed;
And we disdain what formerly had grieved.
A few fair flowers around their colours fling,
But what does questioning their sources bring?
That from corruption and from death they spring.
’Tis thus with those sweet dreams which life begin,
We weary of them, and we look within:
What do we find? Guile, suffering, and sin.
I know my kind too well not to despise
The gilded sophistry that round it lies:
Hate, sorrow, falsehood—mocking their disguise.
Oh, thou old world! so full of guilt and cares,
So mean, so small—I marvel Heaven bears
Thy struggle, which the seeing almost shares.
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