O kind protecting Darkness! as a child Flies back to bury in its mother’s lap His shame and his confusion, so to thee, O Mother Night, come I! within the folds Of thy dark robe hide thou me close; for I So long, so heedless, with external things Have played the liar, that whate’er I see, E’en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars, Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me Smiling those smiles, which I may not return, Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice, As angry claimants or expectants sure Of that I promised and may not perform, Look me in the face! O hide me, Mother Night! 1841 IX Once more the wonted road I tread, Once more dark heavens above me spread, Upon the windy down I stand, My station whence the circling land Lies mapped and pictured wide below;— Such as it was, such e’en again, Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain By hedge or tree unbroken;—lo! A few grey woods can only show How vain their aid, and in the sense Of one unaltering impotence, Relieving not, meseems enhance The sovereign dulness of the expanse. Yet marks where human hand hath been, Bare house, unsheltered village, space Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between (Such aspect as methinks may be In some half-settled colony), From Nature vindicate the scene; A wide, and yet disheartening view, A melancholy world. ’Tis true, Most true; and yet, like those strange smiles By fervent hope or tender thought From distant happy regions brought, Which upon some sick bed are seen To glorify a pale worn face With sudden beauty,—so at whiles Lights have descended, hues have been, To clothe with half-celestial grace The bareness of the desert place. Since so it is, so be it still! Could only thou, my heart, be taught To treasure, and in act fulfil The lesson which the sight has brought: In thine own dull and dreary state To work and patiently to wait: Little thou think’st in thy despair How soon the o’ershaded sun may shine, And e’en the dulling clouds combine To bless with lights and hues divine That region desolate and bare, Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine! Still doth the coward heart complain; The hour may come, and come in vain; The branch that withered lies and dead No suns can force to lift its head. True!—yet how little thou canst tell How much in thee is ill or well; Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee, Be sure, was life designed to be A draught of dull complacency. One Power too is it, who doth give The food without us, and within The strength that makes it nutritive; He bids the dry bones rise and live, And e’en in hearts depraved to sin Some sudden, gracious influence, May give the long-lost good again, And wake within the dormant sense And love of good;—for mortal men, So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see Defeat itself is victory.