A NIGHT AT THE BLACK SIGN.

———

BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

———

Ye, who follow to the measure

Where the trump of Fortune leads,

And at inns a-glow with pleasure

Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,

In your hours of lordly leisure

Have ye heard a voice of wo

On the starless wind of midnight

Come and go?

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence

Rides the higher roads of Time,

Hark, how from the troubled distance,

Voices made by wo sublime,

In their sorrow, claim assistance,

Though it come from friend or foe—

Shall they ask and find no answer?

Rise and go.

One there was, who in his sadness

Laid his staff and mantle down,

Where the demons laughed to madness

What the night-winds could not drown—

Never came a voice of gladness

Though the cups should foam and flow,

And the pilgrim thus proclaiming

Rose to go.

“All the night I hear the speaking

Of low voices round my bed,

And the dreary floor a-creaking

Under feet of stealthy tread:—

Like a very demon shrieking

Swings the black sign to and fro,

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“On the hearth the brands are lying

In a black, unseemly show;

Through the roof the winds are sighing

And they will not cease to blow;

Through the house sad hearts replying

Send their answer deep and low—

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“Tell me not of fires relighted

And of chambers glowing warm,

Or of travelers benighted,

Overtaken by the storm.

Urge me not; your hand is blighted

As your heart is—even so!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—

For I go.

“Tell me not of goblets teeming

With the antidote of pain,

For its taste and pleasant seeming

Only hide the deadly bane;

Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,

How they curse thee in their wo!

Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,

For I go.

“I will leave your dreary tavern

Ere I drink its mandragore:

Like a black and hated cavern

There are reptiles on the floor;

They have overrun your tavern,

They are at your wine below!

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“There’s an hostler in your stable

Tends a steed no man may own,

And against your windy gable

How the night-birds scream and moan!

Even the bread upon your table

Is the ashy food of wo;

Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,

For I go.

“Here I will not seek for slumber,

And I will not taste your wine:

All your house the fiends encumber,

And they are no mates of mine;

Nevermore I join your number

Though the tempests rain or snow—

Here’s my staff and here’s my mantle,

And I go.”

Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—

(Pain hath made us more akin)

Trust not to the strength of others,

Trust the arm of strength within;

One good hour of courage smothers

All the ills an age can know;

Take your staff and take your mantle,

Rise and go.