Hymns To The Gods - No. 12 Poem by Albert Pike

TO HUPNOS.

I.
Kind Comforter of all the weary Gods,
With drooping eyelids, head that ever nods!
Thou silent soother, that with all thy train
Of empty dreams, dim tenants of the brain,
Vague as the wind, dost sleep in thy dark cave,
At whose mouth sluggishly white poppies wave,
In the light airs that saunter by thy bed,—
Thine only throne, with darkness tenanted,
And curtains black as are the eyes of Night!—
Thou, who dost sleep, when wanes the reluctant light,
Deep in lone forests, where gray Evening hides,
Trembling at sight of the sun; and Shadow glides
Through silent tree-tops: or if, half-awake,
Thou dozest on the margin of some lake,
Land-locked, and still as the mute, cloudless sky;
While thy quaint Dreams, wayward and wanton, fly,
With mischievous pranks, fantastic tricks, mad mirth,
About the sluggard, Earth:
Oh, come, and hear the hymn that we are chanting,—
Here, **** the shivered star light through thick leaves is slanting!

II.
Thou lover of the banks of idle streams,
Shadowed by broad old oaks, with scattered gleams
From moon and stars upon them;—of the ocean,
When its great bosom throbs with no emotion,
But the round moon hangs out her lamp, to pour
A sparkling glory on its level floor!
Thou, that reclinest on the moist, warm sands,
While winds come dancing from far southern lands,
With dreams upon their backs, and wings that reek
And drip with odors; or upon a peak
Of cloud, that, like a hill of chrysolite,
Leans on the western sky, when the bland night
Comes late in summer; or beneath the sea,
Scarce conscious of the dim monotony
Of the great waves, here murmuring like the wings
Of swarming dreams, while the huge ocean swings
His bulk above thy listless, heavy head!
(As, chained upon his bed,
A conquered Titan, with unconscious motion,—
Even so respiring swings the mute and sleeping ocean.)

III.
Thou who dost bless sad mourners with thy touch,
And make sharp Agony relax his clutch
Upon the bleeding fibres of the heart,
Pale Disappointment no more mope apart,
And Sorrow dry her tears, and cease to weep
Her life away, gaining new cheer in sleep!
Thou who dost bless the birds, at evening gray,
When, tired of singing all the summer day,
They, longing, watch to see the evening star,—
Thy herald,— on the sky's blue slope! Where are
Thy flocks of fitting dream, dear God, by whom
All noise is most abhorred? Come to this gloom,
So cool, so fresh, where nought the silence stirs,
Except the murmur of the dreaming firs!
Touch our tired eyes! Make the dusk shades more dense!
Ah! thou hast come! We feel thine influence,
Forget our hymn, and sink in sleep away;
And so, till new-born Day
Climbs high in heaven, with fire-steeds swiftly leaping,
Here we'll recline, beneath the vine-leaves calmly sleeping.