199 

 APOSTROPHE AT MIDNIGHT. 



Ye spirits of Earth's dead ! Ye, who have passed 



The borne of dissolution, and arrived 



At some unspeakable, new world of being, 



Some place of Glory — if enfranchised mind 



Need aught beyond its own internal bliss ; — 



Say ! — if ye may breathe back through mortal sense 



One answer unto yearning bosoms here. 



What are ye ? What immortal thoughts with things 



Immortal dwell ? where Truth like shadeless light 



Strikes upon all ; Truth, the first living ray 



Of God, sent forth from Him to illumine all ! 



Is knowledge yours ? is love ? love upon knowledge 



Founded, as on an everlasting rock : 



Do ye, communing with the Maker's works, 



Works of benevolence and wisdom, grow 



More like to His perfection ? nearer Him ? 



No answer comes ! the cells wherein ye lay 



Are voiceless ; the wild winds that hold your breath ; 



The earth, that hath your dust, the waters, where 



Your tears are gone; are voiceless. Ye walk not 



With us, or on the right hand, or the left. 



Up to the Heavens we look, — the burning stars 



Speak of themselves, but have no sound from you ; 



Yet are they homes of beauty, where the spirits 



Even of the just made perfect, might abide. 



The depth of blue unfolds, — the sapphire courts 



That skirt the throne of God ! There, do ye tread. 



And hear angelic voices float around ? 



Or with the First-created hold discourse. 



Your own not held unworthy e'en of those 



Who were, ere sun or stars, and saw them rise 



In lovely order, till this universe 



Was built sublime, and from yon circling spheres 



The morning stars their heavenly anthem sung. 



And can we look on them, nor think of you ? 



Mind mingles with all these I the Invisible 



Possess us ; every thought becomes a being 



Living and moving ; filling up the vast 



With glorious teachers, though to mortal eye 



Yet unrevealed, by mortal ear unheard. 



