A poem by James Thomson (1834-1882)
In his life, he penned under the name Bysshe Vanolis,
and his greatest work is said to be
"The City of Dreadful Night"
This piece, however, is my favourite of his.
"Ceste insigne
fable et tragicque comedie."--RABELAIS
THE sun was down, and
twilight grey
Filled half
the air; but in the room,
Whose curtain had been
drawn all day,
The twilight
was a dusky gloom:
Which seemed at first as
still as death,
And void;
but was indeed all rife
With subtle thrills, the
pulse and breath
Of
multitudinous lower life.
In their abrupt and
headlong way
Bewildered
flies for light had dashed
Against the curtain all
the day,
And now
slept wintrily abashed;
And nimble mice slept,
wearied out
With such a
double night's uproar;
But solid beetles
crawled about
The chilly
hearth and naked floor.
And so throughout the
twilight hour
That vaguely
murmurous hush and rest
There brooded; and
beneath its power
Life
throbbing held its throbs supprest:
Until the thin-voiced
mirror sighed,
"I am
all blurred with dust and damp,
So long ago the clear
day died,
So long has
gleamed nor fire nor lamp."
Whereon the curtain
murmured back,
"Some
change is on us, good or ill;
Behind me and before is
black
As when
those human things lie still:
But I have seen the
darkness grow
As grows the
daylight every morn;
Have felt out there long
shine and glow,
In here long
chilly dusk forlorn."
The cupboard grumbled
with a groan,
"Each
new day worse starvation brings:
Since he came
here I have not known
Or sweets or
cates or wholesome things:
But now! a pinch of
meal, a crust,
Throughout
the week is all I get.
I am so empty; it is
just
As when they
said we were to let."
"What is become,
then, of our Man?"
The petulant
old glass exclaimed;
"If all this time
he slumber can,
He really
out to be ashamed.
I wish we had our Girl
again,
So gay and
busy, bright and fair:
The girls are better
than these men,
Who only for
their dull selves care.
"It is so many
hours ago--
The lamp
and fire were both alight--
I see him pacing to and
fro,
Perturbing
restlessly the night.
His face was pale to
give one fear,
His eyes
when lifted looked too bright;
He muttered; what, I
could not hear:
Bad words
though; something was not right."
The table said, "He
wrote so long
That I grew
weary of his weight;
The pen kept up a
cricket song,
It ran and
ran at such a rate:
And in the longer pauses
he
With both
his folded arms downpressed,
And stared as one who
does not see,
Or sank his
head upon his breast."
The fire-grate said,
"I am as cold
As if I
never had a blaze;
The few dead cinders
here I hold,
I held
unburned for days and days.
Last night he made them
flare; but still
What good
did all his writing do?
Among my ashes curl and
thrill
Thin ghosts
of all those papers too."
The table answered,
"Not quite all;
He saved and
folded up one sheet,
And sealed it fast, and
let it fall;
And here it
lies now white and neat."
Whereon the letter's
whisper came,
"My
writing is closed up too well;
Outside there's not a
single name,
And who
should read me I can't tell."
The mirror sneered with
scornful pride,
(That
ancient crack which spoiled her looks
Had marred her temper),
"Write and write!
And read
those stupid, worn-out books!
That's all he does,
read, write, and read,
And smoke
that nasty pipe which stinks:
He never takes the
slightest heed
How any of
us feels or thinks.
"But Lucy fifty
times a day
Would come
and smile here in my face,
Adjust a tress that
curled astray,
Or tie a
ribbon with more grace.
She looked so young and
fresh and fair,
She blushed
with such a charming bloom,
It did one good to see
her there,
And
brightened all things in the room.
"She did
not sit hours stark and dumb
As pale as
moonshine by the lamp;
To lie in bed when day
was come,
And leave us
curtained chill and damp.
She slept away the
dreary dark,
And rose to
greet the pleasant morn;
And sang as gaily as a
lark
While busy
as the flies sun-born.
"And how she loved
us every one;
And dusted
this and mended that,
With trills and laughs
and freaks of fun,
And tender scoldings
in her chat!
And then her bird, that
sang as shrill
As she sang
sweet; her darling flowers
That grew there in the
window-sill,
Where she
would sit at work for hours.
"It was not much
she ever wrote;
Her fingers
had good work to do;
Say, once a week a
pretty note;
And very
long it took her too.
And little more she
read, I wis;
Just now and
then a pictured sheet,
Besides those letters
she would kiss
And croon
for hours, they were so sweet.
"She had her
friends too, blithe young girls,
Who
whispered, babbled, laughed, caressed,
And romped and danced
with dancing curls,
And give our
life a joyous zest.
But with this dullard,
glum and sour,
Not one of
all his fellow-men
Has ever passed a social
hour;
We might be
in some wild beast's den."
This long tirade aroused
the bed,
Who spoke in
deep and ponderous bass,
Befitting that calm life
he led,
As if
firm-rooted in his place:
In broad majestic bulk
alone,
As in thrice
venerable age,
He stood at once the
royal throne,
The monarch,
the experienced sage:
"I know what is and
what has been;
Not anything
to me comes strange,
Who in so many years
have seen
And lived
through every kind of change.
I know when men are good
or bad,
When well or
ill," he slowly said;
"When sad or glad,
when sane or mad,
And when
they sleep alive or dead."
At this last word of
solemn lore
A tremor
circled through the gloom,
As if a crash upon the
floor
Had jarred
and shaken all the room:
For nearly all the
listening things
Were old and
worn, and knew what curse
Of violent change death
often brings,
From good to
bad, from bad to worse;
They get to know each
other well,
To feel at
home and settled down;
Death bursts among them
like a shell,
And strews
them over all the town.
The bed went on,
"This man who lies
Upon me now
is stark and cold;
He will not any more
arise,
And do the
things he did of old.
"But we shall have
short peace or rest;
For soon up
here will come a rout,
And nail him in a queer
long chest,
And carry
him like luggage out.
They will be muffled all
in black,
And whisper
much, and sigh and weep:
But he will never more
come back,
And some one
else in me must sleep."
Thereon a little phial
shrilled,
"Here
empty on the chair I lie:
I heard one say, as I
was filled,
'With half
of this a man would die.'
The man there drank me
with slow breath,
And
murmured,'Thus ends barren strife:
O sweeter, thou cold
wine of death,
Than ever
sweet warm wine of life.'"
"One of my cousins
long ago,
A little
thing," the mirror said,
"Was carried to a
couch to show,
Whether a
man was really dead.
Two great improvements
marked the case:
He did not
blur her with his breath,
His many-wrinkled,
twitching face
Was smooth
old ivory: verdict, Death.--"
It lay, the lowest thing
there, lulled
Sweet-sleep-like
in corruption's truce;
The form whose purpose
was annulled,
While all
the other shapes meant use.
It lay, the he become
now it,
Unconscious
of the deep disgrace,
Unanxious how its parts
might flit
Through what
new forms in time and space.
It lay and preached, as
dumb things do,
More
powerfully than tongues can prate;
Though life be torture
through and through,
Man is but
weak to 'plain of fate:
The drear path crawls on
drearier still
To wounded
feet and hopeless breast?
Well, he can lie down
when he will,
And straight
all ends in endless rest.
And while the black
night nothing saw,
And till the
cold morn came at last,
That old bed held the
room in awe
With tales
of its experience vast.
It thrilled the gloom:
it told such tales
Of human
sorrow and delights,
Of fever moans and
infant wails,
Of births
and deaths and bridal nights.
James Thomson
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