The Knickerbocker, or New-York Monthly Magazine, March 1844

Or high in mirth with those whose senseful wit
Outflashed the rosy wines that warmed its flow,
I’ve held my vigils till the brow of Night
Grew pale and starless, and her solemn pomp,
Out-glared by day, faded in hueless space.
I do repent me of my worship. Night
Was given for rest: who breaks this natural law
Wrongs body and soul alike. One vigorous hour
Of sober day-light thought is worth a night’s
Slow oscitations of a drowsy mind.
’Neath Eve’s pale star the desolate heart reverts
To those far moments, when the sky was blue,
And earth was green, as earth and sky to eyes
Once disenchanted, can appear no more.

We all are mourners. Good men must deplore
Lost hours, lost friends, lost pleasures; and the bad
Are racked by throes of impotent remorse,
Dark, fierce, and bitter; for themselves are lost,
And still neglecting what remains of life,
They strive by backward reachings to redeem
The irredeemable. Why pass the hours,
The fleeting hours, in profitless regrets,
When each regret but lops another bough,
Full of green promise, from the tree of life?
You, who in your bereavement truly feel
This truth, expressed so sadly and so well:
‘Joy’s recollection is no longer joy,
While Sorrow’s memory is sorrow still;’
I counsel to recant your vows, and come
With me to worship at a better shrine,
The shrine of Morning.
Morning is the hour
Of vigorous thought, unconquerable hope,
And high endeavor. All our powers, in sleep
Bathed, nurtured, clad, and strung with nerves of steel,
Rise from their brief oblivion keen with health,
And strong for struggling, and we feel that toil
Is toil’s own recompense. I deem that Man
Is not a retrospective being; for his course
Is on, still on; and never should his eyes
Turn back, but to detect his errors past,
And shun them in his future steps. Too long,
Ah! much too long, O world! and oft I’ve gazed
In awe and wonder on thy midnight sleep,
While magic Memory, singly or in groups,
Upon her faded tablets re-produced
Fair and familiar forms of Love and Joy.
Oh! so familiar were they, and so fair,
Though dim, those blessed faces, that my eyes
Grew tremulous with the dew of unshed tears.
The gaze hath hurt me. It hath taken their rest
And natural joy from body and spirit, and worn
Too fast the wheel-work of this frail machine.
And now, oh! sleeping Nature! while the stars
Smile on thy face, and I in fancy hear
The low pulsations of thy dormant life,
And feel thy mighty bosom heave and fall
With regular breathings; through my little world
I feel Disease advancing on his sure
And stealthy mission. Well I know his step,
The wily traitor! when I mark my short,
Quick respirations; and his call I know,
As, in the hush of night, my ear alarmed
By the heart’s death-march notes, repeats its strange
And audible beatings.
Down! grim spectre, down!
Flap not thy wings across my face, nor let
Thy ghastly visage, horrible shadow! freeze
My staring eye-balls! Let me fly, O Death!
Thy chilling presence, and implore thy soft
And merciful brother,[2 - Ενθα δὲ Νυκτὸς παῖδες ἐρεμνῆς οἰκί' ἔχουσιν, Ὕπνος καὶ Θάνατος, κ. τ. λ. Hes. Theog. 1. 758, etc.] dewy Sleep, to drip
Papaverous balsam on my eyes, and lull
My throbbing temples on his lap to rest!
·····
The day-spring reddens: the first few, faint streaks,
Mingling and brightening o’er the eastern skies,
Announce the upward chariot of the Sun.
Light leaps from Darkness! In the grave of Night
Day lays aside his burial-robes, and dons
His regal crown, and Nature smiles to see
His resurrection, shouting, ‘Hail! oh, hail!
Eve’s younger[3 - Observe the order of collocation in Genesis i: 5. ‘And the EVENING and the MORNING were the first day.’] brother! and again, all hail!
Thou bright-eyed Morning! fairest among all
Of God’s fair creatures! Rise, bright prince, and shine
O’er this green earth, from brooding Darkness won,
From wild, waste Chaos, and the womb of Night!’

Let me too burst the leaden bands of Sleep,
And while the blinking stars, all faint and pale
With their long watch, recall their courier-rays
To their far orbits; and our earthly stars,
The stars of Fashion, sick and wan as they,
Are wheeling homeward to their feverous rest,
Let me walk forth among the silent groves,
Or through the cool vales snuff the morning air.
How fresh! how breathing! Every draught I take
Seems filled with healthiest life, and sends the blood
Rushing and tingling through my quickened veins,
Like inspiration! How the fluent air,