Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BOOKWORLD, by JAMES MACFARLAN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BOOKWORLD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When the dim presence of the awful night
Last Line: That fill time's channel like a stream of suns!
Subject(s): Authors And Authorship; Books; Reading


WHEN the dim presence of the awful night
Clasps in its jewell'd arms the slumbering earth,
Alone I sit beside the lowly light,
That like a dream-fire flickers on my hearth,
With some joy-teeming volume in my hand --
A peopled planet, opulent and grand.

It may be Shakspeare, with his endless train
Of sceptred thoughts -- a glorious progeny! --
Borne on the whirlwind of his mighty strain,
Through vision-lands, for ever fair and free,
His great mind beaming thro' those phantom crowds,
Like evening sun from out a wealth of clouds.

It may be Milton, on his seraph wing,
Soaring to heights of grandeur yet untrod;
Now deep where horrid shapes of darkness cling,
Now lost in splendour at the feet of God;
Girt with the terror of avenging skies,
Or wrapt in dreams of infant paradise.

It may be Spenser, with his misty shades,
Where forms of beauty wondrous tales rehearse;
With breezy vistas, and with cool arcades
Opening for ever in his antique verse.
It may be Chaucer, with his drink divine,
His Tabard old, and pilgrims twenty-nine.

Perchance I linger with the mighty three
Of glorious Greece, that morning land of song.
Who bared the fearful front of tragedy,
And soar'd to fame on pinions broad and strong;
Or watch beneath the Trojan ramparts proud
The dim hosts gathering like a thunder-cloud.

No rust of time can sully Quixote's mail,
In wonted rest his lance securely lies;
Still is the faithful Sancho stout and hale,
For ever wide his wonder-stricken eyes;
And Rosinante, bare and spectral steed,
Still throws gaunt shadows o'er their every deed.

Still can I robe me in the old delights
Of caliph splendid, and of genii grim,
The star-wealth of Arabia's Thousand Nights,
Shining till every other light grows dim;
Wander away in broad voluptuous lands,
By streams of silver, and through golden sands;

Still hear the storms of Camoens burst and swell,
His seas of vengeance raging wild and wide;
Or wander by the glimmering fires of hell,
With dreaming Dante and his spirit-guide;
Loiter in Petrarch's green melodious grove;
Or hang with Tasso o'er his hopeless love.

What then to me is all your sparkling dance,
Wine-purpled banquet, or vain fashion's blaze,
Thus roaming through the realms of rich romance,
Old Bookworld, and its wealth of royal days,
For ever with those brave and brilliant ones
That fill time's channel like a stream of suns!





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