In the Morning by Willis Boyd Allen - HTML preview

IN MY ARM-CHAIR.

Flickers the ruddy firelight on the wall;

Now here, now there, the shadows restlessly

Dance in and out among the gleaming bars

That prison many a glimpse of sea and sky

Upon the pictured canvas. Brightly falls

The cheerful light upon familiar forms

Of volumes clothed in sober garb and gay,

Whose very names, in golden characters,

Invite to solace sweet, and peace of mind.

Footfalls incessant in the rainy street

Mingle their dreary cadence with the roll

And rhythmic echo of the iron wheel,

Half muffled by the storm’s dull monotone.

Within, the gentle presence of the flame,

With its soft rustle ever and anon,

Serves but to take away the very pain

Of silence absolute.

It is the hour

For contemplation meet. The air is thronged

With thoughts innumerable, fancies light,

That flit about on airy wing, or play

Among the fireborn shadows on the wall;

Till, touched by the Promethean glow, they take

A seeming form substantial, animate.

From out their thin octavo cells pour forth

The shapes ethereal of poet, sage,

Philosopher, and man of God, whose words

Make wisdom beautiful, and beauty wise.

Silent they rise before me, one by one,

E’en as the fabled genius, close involved

Within the tiny casket, gained at last

His proper self, and towered high above

His liberator. But of other mien

Are these strange forms around my hearth to-night.

With aspect grave, yet kind, they gaze on me

As old companions might on one they loved,

Who loved them in return. I know each one,

And recognize the habit of his life.

Old Gilbert White—whose flowing locks, and dress

Of quaint antiquity, precise and neat,

Recall his quiet walks in Selborne wood—

Has paused with curious, meditative eye,

Before an owl upon my mantle shelf,

And rapidly, in shadowy script, records

The sapient bird’s presentment.

Near at hand,

A man of kindly countenance and mild,

Impressed with lines of pure and noble thought,

Bends low in prayer; ere long resumes his pen,

And adds one more sweet hymn to those that bear

George Herbert’s name. Anon appears a face

More gentle than the rest, it seems, with eyes

Of deep and tender yearning. Silently

The figure turns aside, and by the hearth

Remains aloof, with dreamy gaze intent

Upon the glowing coals. What fantasies

Are imaged there, reflected from his mind,

And striving for the elixir of his touch

And wondrous pen, that give eternal life

To such as they! Lo, built of candent fire

The Old Manse drops its Mosses at his feet;

Italia’s strange physician whispers now

Of potent herb and flower. The Puritan,

His wonted sternness softened, deigns to tell

Of old-time guilt—the Scarlet Letter’s brand—

Till, glancing up, he shudders at the approach

Of stricken Hester, with her demon child.

So wanes the night. In quick succession move

Shades of the mighty dead before my eyes.

Again is played the Comedy Divine,

And gloomily the awful form of him

Whose mind such Titan offspring bore, attends

The movement of each scene. The cowl and robe,

Close at his side, betray that zealous monk

Whose life was Imitation of the Christ.

Amid the still increasing throng, behold

Sage Izaak Walton, creel and rod in hand;

But while I gaze upon his visage mild,

Expectant half to hear his counsel how

The wily carp to ensnare, the fiery bridge

O’er which my fancy boldly trod, and found

Her way to realms unreal, topples down

With mimic crash, and lies a ruined mass

Upon the hearth. Yet by its waning glow

I see the hurried parting of my guests,

Retreating each within his narrow cell;

As when beneath a monastery roof

The low, sweet chant of vespers dies away,—

The last faint echoes lingering still within

The moonlit cloisters,—silently the forms

Of holy men glide to and fro among

The shadows, till the hush of night descends

With brooding wings, and gathers all to rest.

THE END.