Читать книгу Poems - John L. Stoddard - Страница 7

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O pallid spectre of the midnight skies,

Whose phantom features in the dome of Night

Elude the keenest gaze of wistful eyes,

Till amplest lenses aid the failing sight;

On heaven's blue sea the farthest isle of fire,

From thee, whose glories it would fain admire,

Must vision, baffled, in despair retire!

What art thou, ghostly visitant of flame?

Wouldst thou 'neath closer scrutiny resolve

In myriad suns that constellations frame,

Around which life-blest satellites revolve,

Like those unnumbered orbs which nightly creep

In dim procession o'er the azure steep,

As white-winged caravans the desert sweep?

Or art thou still an incandescent mass,

Acquiring form as hostile forces urge,

Through whose vast length continuous lightnings pass,

As to and fro its fiery billows surge?

Whose glowing atoms, whirled in ceaseless strife,

Where now chaotic anarchy is rife,

Shall yet become the fair abodes of life?

We know not; for the faint, exhausted rays

Which hither on Light's winged coursers come

From fires which ages since first lit their blaze,

One instant gleam, then perish, spent and dumb;

How sad the thought that, howsoe'er we yearn

Of life on yonder glittering orbs to learn,

We read no message, and could none return!

Yet this we know:—yon ring of spectral light,

Whose distance thrills the soul with solemn awe,

Can ne'er escape in its majestic might

The firm control of omnipresent law;

This mote descending to its bounden place,

Those suns whose radiance we can scarcely trace,

Alike obey the Power pervading space.