James Thomson - The City of Dreadful Night

  Lo, thus, as prostrate, "In the dust I write
    My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears."
  Yet why evoke the spectres of black night
    To blot the sunshine of exultant years?
  Why disinter dead faith from mouldering hidden?
  Why break the seals of mute despair unbidden,
    And wail life's discords into careless ears?

  Because a cold rage seizes one at whiles
    To show the bitter old and wrinkled truth
  Stripped naked of all vesture that beguiles,
    False dreams, false hopes, false masks and modes of youth;
  Because it gives some sense of power and passion
  In helpless innocence to try to fashion
    Our woe in living words howe'er uncouth.

  Surely I write not for the hopeful young,
    Or those who deem their happiness of worth,
  Or such as pasture and grow fat among
    The shows of life and feel nor doubt nor dearth,
  Or pious spirits with a God above them
  To sanctify and glorify and love them,
    Or sages who foresee a heaven on earth.

  For none of these I write, and none of these
    Could read the writing if they deigned to try;
  So may they flourish in their due degrees,
    On our sweet earth and in their unplaced sky.
  If any cares for the weak words here written,
  It must be some one desolate, Fate-smitten,
    Whose faith and hopes are dead, and who would die.

  Yes, here and there some weary wanderer
    In that same city of tremendous night,
  Will understand the speech and feel a stir
    Of fellowship in all-disastrous fight;
  "I suffer mute and lonely, yet another
  Uplifts his voice to let me know a brother
    Travels the same wild paths though out of sight."

  O sad Fraternity, do I unfold
    Your dolorous mysteries shrouded from of yore?
  Nay, be assured; no secret can be told
    To any who divined it not before:
  None uninitiate by many a presage
  Will comprehend the language of the message,
    Although proclaimed aloud for evermore.

  The City is of Night; perchance of Death
    But certainly of Night; for never there
  Can come the lucid morning's fragrant breath
    After the dewy dawning's cold grey air:
  The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity
  The sun has never visited that city,
    For it dissolveth in the daylight fair.

  Dissolveth like a dream of night away;
    Though present in distempered gloom of thought
  And deadly weariness of heart all day.
    But when a dream night after night is brought
  Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many
  Recur each year for several years, can any
    Discern that dream from real life in aught?

  For life is but a dream whose shapes return,
    Some frequently, some seldom, some by night
  And some by day, some night and day: we learn,
    The while all change and many vanish quite,
  In their recurrence with recurrent changes
  A certain seeming order; where this ranges
    We count things real; such is memory's might.

  A river girds the city west and south,
    The main north channel of a broad lagoon,
  Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth;
    Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon
  For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges;
  Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges,
    Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn.

  Upon an easy slope it lies at large
    And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest
  Which swells out two leagues from the river marge.
    A trackless wilderness rolls north and west,
  Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains,
  Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains;
    And eastward rolls the shipless sea's unrest.

  The city is not ruinous, although
    Great ruins of an unremembered past,
  With others of a few short years ago
    More sad, are found within its precincts vast.
  The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement
  In house or palace front from roof to basement
    Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast.

  The street-lamps burn amid the baleful glooms,
    Amidst the soundless solitudes immense
  Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs.
    The silence which benumbs or strains the sense
  Fulfils with awe the soul's despair unweeping:
  Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping,
    Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence!

  Yet as in some necropolis you find
    Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead,
  So there: worn faces that look deaf and blind
    Like tragic masks of stone.  With weary tread,
  Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander,
  Or sit foredone and desolately ponder
    Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head.

  Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth,
    A woman rarely, now and then a child:
  A child!  If here the heart turns sick with ruth
    To see a little one from birth defiled,
  Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish
  Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish
    To meet one erring in that homeless wild.

  They often murmur to themselves, they speak
    To one another seldom, for their woe
  Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak
    Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow
  To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamour,
  Unless there waits some victim of like glamour,
    To rave in turn, who lends attentive show.

  The City is of Night, but not of Sleep;
    There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain;
  The pitiless hours like years and ages creep,
    A night seems termless hell.  This dreadful strain
  Of thought and consciousness which never ceases,
  Or which some moments' stupor but increases,
    This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane.

  They leave all hope behind who enter there:
    One certitude while sane they cannot leave,
  One anodyne for torture and despair;
    The certitude of Death, which no reprieve
  Can put off long; and which, divinely tender,
  But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render
    That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave1