English poem
Per Noctem Plurima Volvens
by John Reade (1826–)
When the weary sun has ended his journey and descended, By his own bright, golden pathway, to his mansion in the west, And the sentry stars have taken the sky he has forsaken, To watch till he awaken, bright and smiling, from his rest;
And the Moon is rising slowly with a light serene and holy, The Queen of all the watchers, the sister of the Sun, And hushed are all the noises from Earth’s unnumbered voices, And the heart of sleep rejoices in the conquest he has won;
In the still, unbroken quiet, free from day’s unceasing riot, I love to call around me the friends of long before, And to fill my vacant places with the well-remembered graces Of dear, old familiar faces that may smile for me no more.
Some that shared my boyish pastime, as they seemed to me the last time That I saw them, full of life and joy and hope that knew no bound, But who now are sad and grieving, and have lost the gay believing In the deeds of hope’s achieving, or—are laid beneath the ground;—
Some, not merely friends for pleasure, but who cherished friendship’s treasure More than gold or worldly honour or gay fashion’s fickle smile, Who would neither scorn nor flatter, who spoke honestly, no matter How the world might grin and chatter, loving truth and hating guile;—
Some whose silvery hair seemed saintly, and whose eyes though shining faintly, Shed a tender lustre o’er me that will light me till the grave That with all men I inherit takes my body, and my spirit, Trusting in my Savour’s merit, has returned to God who gave;—
One, whom I have lost forever, but whom I will still endeavour To deserve, though undeserving to have passed before her eyes, For I know that while I love her, what is best and purest of her Near me, through my life shall hover, like an angel from the skies;—
These, by Fancy, great enchanter, called, into my presence enter, When the Sun and Earth are sleeping and the Moon and Stars are bright, And whatever past seemed pleasant I live over in the present, And the cares of day are lessened by the magic of the night.
More by John Reade
- Oh! the day is a weary burden, the night is a restless…
- On a Dead Field-Flower
- On these his sun of genius shone
- Our land is flushed with love; through the wealth of her…
- Postscript
- Priam and Helen
- Rejoice ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side
- Rejoice, ye tribes of Israel, the Lord was on your side