Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Deserted City
THE DESERTED CITY.
I had been weeping—not the April dew
That leaves the heart the lighter for the shedding;
But drops of anguish, from a fountain full
Of bitter waters—troubled, too, and deep.
Till the moon rose to the horizon's brim
And looking o'er the earth with a calm smile,
Went on her peaceful way among the stars,
I sat with brow bared to the balmy breath
Of the soft breeze of evening, as it came
Whispering around me with a lulling song,
Kissing most tenderly my fevered brow,
Wooing the agony from my wild pulse,
And striving by its blandishments to steal
My soul away into forgetfulness.
And when the moon, like a sweet white-robed mother,
In all her pensive loveliness uprose,
And went forth, with her still white feet, among
The stars, her sleeping children, with a smile
Of mingled majesty and matchless love,
I raised my eyes as a lone orphan would,
Longing for the great bliss of tenderness;
And lo! the light of her angelic face
Was bent upon me—sad, but oh, so sweet!
And by degrees my anguish wore away,
And the tumultuous throbbing of my pulse
Grew low, subdued, and gentle; and I breathed
My sorrow out in sighs, that were no more
The deep convulsiveness of bitter grief.
And by and by the earth and I, her child,
Slumbered in peace beneath the gentle reign
Of the fair queen of bright dominioned night.
But still I deemed that I was by my casement,
And that there lay beneath me, in the light
Of the full midnight moon, a lovely city;
A city beautiful with trees and fountains,
And works of grace and splendor, and high domes;
Palaces glittering in the moon's bright rays,
Gleaming like alabaster; and broad streets
Paved costlily with marble in mosaic,
But overgrown with grass and trailing weeds.
The spires, and palace-towers, and monuments,
Gleamed brightly in the moonlight, but rank moss
Waved from the terraces to the swaying wind,
With a low, rustling sound, and full of woe.
No print of feet was seen on any door-stone,
Not from one casement streamed the light of lamps,
But every where had desolation stalked,
Till not even one of all these palaces
Owned lord or serf—but all were tenantless.
And I alone was the sole living thing
That breathed within the city's silent walls.
The loneliness was awful; I stole down
From my still chamber to the trackless street,
And onward still, from palace unto palace,
Entering each by the wide-opened doors,
Whose hinges were no longer free to turn;
And flitting ghostily from room to room,
Pursued by phantom fears, I hastened on.
The moonlight checkered the cold marble floors,
And gleamed upon rich velvet, and high walls
Hung with dark paintings, frescoing their sides;
And glittered on large mirrors, that had not
Reflected life for many a silent year.
Volumes unoped were lying mouldering,
Vases whose flowers crumbled to the touch,
Gems and rich ornaments, were scattered round,
All useless and neglected. In a hall,
Decked for the revel of the bright and young,
Were lamps all garlanded with withered flowers,
And tables spread with rich untasted wines,
And burdened with their weight of services.
My fears grew tremulous, and I sat down,
Reclining on the velvet now become
Faded and ruined for the want of use,
And tried to think of all that had been here;
But ever and anon my fancy made
A sound to startle me where none could be;
And forms were flitting in the twilight dim,
Caused by the moon's uncertain brilliancy
Of grotesque shapelessness, and mocking me
With looks of grim defiance, 'till my brain
Grew wild with terror, and I screamed, to make
A real sound to fright away my fears.
But echo, waked from such long slumbering,
Gave back a hollow and hoarse moaning voice
That made the place more awful than before.
And shrieking in my terror, I sprang up,
Running from room to room in my despair,
Until from weariness I paused, at length,
Within a chamber vast and desolate,
Hung with a solemn tapestry of black.
Upon a throne of marble, plain and firm,
A giant skeleton sat stark and stiff,
Holding a scepter in his bony hand.
This, then, the prince of all this fair outlay
Of wealth—and loneliness! I mused—and woke,
My head reclining on some few old letters
I had been reading as the twilight faded.
How like this city had my heart become!
Once it was fair, and garnished by Love's hand;
But Love was banished, and the monarch Self,
Had died of his own loneliness. Once more
I vowed to call Love from his exilement,
And make the city all his own again.