A Dirge. Poem by William Billington

'TIS midnight's still, mysterious noon!
Earth sleeps. The silver-mantled moon,
With maiden aspect cold and clear,
Looks down upon this dreamy sphere,
Which my sad soul must flee from soon.

Yon mystic lights which burn above,
Emblems of universal love,
And whether watch-fires or huge globes
By distance wrapt in flaming robes,
Like planets round sun-centres move,

Still are they lovely to behold
As showers of heavenly fire and gold,
Or, as may seem to Fancy's eye,
The guardian Angels of the sky
Darting quick flames down, keen but cold.

And thou, pale Queen of night, who art
The lover's load-star, wan and swart
Enchantress, who dost fill thine horn
With spirit-fires, yet canst not burn
The ice of death out of my heart,

I love thy dim and silvery reign,
But here, alas! must not remain,
For at the windows of my soul
The twilight ill-foreboding owl
Hath flapped his wizard wings again.

My life is withered ere it bloomed,
My soul-fruit blasted, hopes entombed;
I feel my steadfast spirit shake,
Like stony towers when an earthquake
Gapes underneath. 'Tis God hath doomed.

I feel that I am forced to quit
This life. Relentless Fate hath writ
The summons, and, though planets fall,
Though earth should sink, he seeks his goal,
And God, the changeless, sanctions it.

And can the soul, whose thoughts aspire
To Heaven, fail before the Sire
Of Heaven, who ordained its birth,
While yon pale planet bathes this earth
With freezing floods of crystal fire?

Could earth remain for ever green,
Be daily washed with solar sheen,
And change its tenants year by year,
Though but a dull and lifeless sphere,
If man had not immortal been?

No! that were to place Mind below
Mere Matter, to make Spirit bow
To Body. Oh! Doubt is the rope
That strangles Will. Yet will I hope
To live as long as star-fires glow!

My bark but waits the rising gale,
My boatswain, Hope, spreads every sail,
Though poorly freighted, she may ride
Serenely over Death's dark tide:
Faith for her pilot, can she fail?

Lo! thus equipped, she quits the strand
Of this dull globe, bound for the land
Of spirits, bearing one weak soul,
A part that seeks its parent whole,
A straggler from the Angel-band,

A drop from Being's reservoir,
A spark of Mind's immortal fire,
A meteor from that spirit-world
Which, cloud-like, round God's throne is,
curled,
A child that fain would see its Sire.