Book 2 — SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF THE NORTH.
Reading edition
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BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE.
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Midnight was brooding o’er the Arctic highlands
Midnight, the dim, and faint, and strangely cold;
When on an iceberg, ’mid the icy islands,
Sat the chill Northern Spirit, weird, and cold.
Her floating tresses hung,
Wailing unto the blast;
Her vapory vestment swung
As the wind hurried past:
And ever and anon she moaned, and sung,
With tremulous voice, such as the tempest leaf
In piny woods, and then again she flung
Her slender fingers o’er a harp, and wept,
And wailed unearthly music, as when grieves
And sings a fallen angel, then it slept
A moment in the rude arms of the blast—
The snowy-footed madly rushing past—
And then sprung up again, as when o’erleap
Rich showers of harmony Heaven’s rampart steep,
And, star-like, from on high
Far-trailing down the sky,
Strike mortals mad, or wild:
So the pale Boreal Child
Sang to the soul of Naught, that brooded o’er
Lone semi-annual nights, and days as long,
An icy ocean, with an icy shore,
And icy islands, sparsely thrown among
A yest of icy waves; and all was ice,
By sempiternal Winter wrought
To many a quaint device.
And then again, when the cold North-wind kissed
Her pallid lips, up to the amethyst
Of the far heaven she raised her spirit eyes,
Then beat, and wept, while ever grim Surprise
Wondered that she should weep, and then she played
A prelude to her harp, then sung, then paused,
While symphonies filled up the gaps she made,
And Echo woke applause.
Wondrous the sadness of her floating strain!
The icebergs thrilled unto their heart of hearts,
And Ocean’s breast rose with convulsive starts;
While from her eyes the tearful-beaded rain
Froze into gems upon her vapory dress,
Embroidered loveliness.
O Loneliness, O Nothingness, O Death!
O Dreariness around me, I must weep!
Would that my very soul were tears to steep
The wind with, that, at every breath,
With weeping, I might spend my soul so fast
My agony’s last throb would soon be past.
O Desolation, wild, and gaunt, and grim!
O hopeless absence of all glad and bright!
O horrid shapes fantastical, what hymn
Of mine, alas! can tell such shapes aright
Would ye but strike me mad,
I should indeed be glad,
I now can pass the dark hours but in weeping;
And could my soul but freeze,
Like the breast of the seas,
How rapturous would be my silent sleeping.
Thou cold and icy moon,
Thou dost not pity me!
Six long months hast thou seen
My weary soul, each year,
Since Earth began, nor wept.
Away, thou’rt hateful now!
Away, for I am mad!
And Earth, detested orb,
How long must thou exist?
Each throb of thy vast pulse
Strikes keenest agony
Into this soul of mine.
If thou hast loveliness,
It ne’er was shown to me.
Come, let us die together!
Hurry thy steeds, O Time!
Bear us into the dark
Of that Eternity,
Whose shadows are so deep
We cannot pierce them yet.
Ye icebergs, that have seen
My wildest misery,
Do ye know sympathy?
Then melt ye down in tears,
And in a sea of grief
Flow round me with sweet sound!
They feel not, know not, aught!
My misery is full!
I must unto my bower—
My bower of chillest ice—
Would that it were my tomb
Ye smile on me in scorn,
Ye that do see my grief!
Then spreading out her wings,
Toward the extremest North
She took her liquid way.
The moon withdrew, and wept;
The stars died out with grief;
The icebergs thrilled again
Unto their icy hearts.
All things were sad for her,
Saddened by her wild song.