betrayed! XVII How the moon triumphs through the endless nights! ", But coming level with it I discerned That it had been a man; for at my tread It stopped in its sore travail and half-turned, Leaning upon its right, and raised its head, And with the left hand twitched back as in ire Long grey unreverend locks befouled with mire. The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement In house or palace front from roof to basement Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast. "@type": "ImageObject", Titanic from her high throne in the north, That City's sombre Patroness and Queen, In bronze sublimity she gazes forth Over her Capital of teen and threne, Over the river with its isles and bridges, The marsh and moorland, to the stern rock-ridges, Confronting them with a coeval mien. The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night. "logo": { And as black fir-groves in a large wind bow, Our rooted congregation, gloom-arrayed, By that great sad voice deep and full were swayed:-- O melancholy Brothers, dark, dark, dark! Betrayed! When he had spoken thus, before he stirred, I spoke, perplexed by something in the signs Of desolation I had seen and heard In this drear pilgrimage to ruined shrines: Where Faith and Love and Hope are dead indeed, Can Life still live? It has been argued, that the city described in the poem is based on London. "foundingDate": "1998", "sameAs": ["", "", ""], All substance lives and struggles evermore Through countless shapes continually at war, By countless interactions interknit: If one is born a certain day on earth, All times and forces tended to that birth, Not all the world could change or hinder it. The city of Thomson’s dreadful night is a dark, bleak place defined by the total absence of faith, love, and hope. And yet release does come; there comes a morn When he awakes from slumbering so sweetly That all the world is changed for him completely, And he is verily as if new-born. VIII While I still lingered on that river-walk, And watched the tide as black as our black doom, I heard another couple join in talk, And saw them to the left hand in the gloom Seated against an elm bole on the ground, Their eyes intent upon the stream profound. My eyelids sank in spite of wonder grown; A louder crash upstartled me in dread: The man had fallen forward, stone on stone, And lay there shattered, with his trunkless head Between the monster's large quiescent paws, Beneath its grand front changeless as life's laws. This is Pandora's box; whose lid shall shut, And Hell-gate too, when hopes have filled it; but They are so thin that it will never glut. From writing a great work with patient plan To justify the ways of God to man, And show how ill must fade and perish quite: I wake from daydreams to this real night. THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT AND OTHER POEMS by THOMSON, James Seller Charles Agvent Published 1880 Condition Small bookplate neatly removed from the front pastedown. You can read the full text here… For one by one, each silent with his thought, I marked a long loose line approach and wend Athwart the great cathedral's cloistered square, And slowly vanish from the moonlit air. Her subjects often gaze up to her there: The strong to drink new strength of iron endurance, The weak new terrors; all, renewed assurance And confirmation of the old despair." By registering with PoetryNook.Com and adding a poem, you represent that you own the copyright to that poem and are granting PoetryNook.Com permission to publish the poem. --Leopardi PROEM Lo, thus, as prostrate, \"In the dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears.\" Yet why evoke the spectres of black night To blot the sunshine of exultant years? }, ... "Oh, Lord! And men regard with passionate awe and yearning The mighty marching and the golden burning, And think the heavens respond to what they feel. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, 75 Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. , { Perchance they were not a great multitude Save in that city of so lonely streets Where one may count up every face he meets. the man speaks sooth: We have no personal life beyond the grave; There is no God; Fate knows nor wrath nor ruth: Can I find here the comfort which I crave? For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day, some night and day: we learn, The while all change and many vanish quite, In their recurrence with recurrent changes A certain seeming order; where this ranges We count things real; such is memory's might. "name": "James Thomson" Have pity on me! { A very attractive copy Edition First Edition Item Price $ Another early critic writes that "The City of Dreadful Night is not a poem, nor a series of poems. VI I sat forlornly by the river-side, And watched the bridge-lamps glow like golden stars Above the blackness of the swelling tide, Down which they struck rough gold in ruddier bars; And heard the heave and plashing of the flow Against the wall a dozen feet below. As whom his one intense thought overpowers, He answered coldly, Take a watch, erase The signs and figures of the circling hours, Detach the hands, remove the dial-face; The works proceed until run down; although Bereft of purpose, void of use, still go. "sameAs": ["", "", ""], }] "inLanguage": "it", EMBED. "url":"", var expires = "; expires=" + date.toGMTString(); As an aside, “City of Dreadful Night” has an illustrative history as a title for fiction, starting with the poem of that name written by the Scottish poet B.V. Thompson in the early 1870s. "url": "" No_Favorite. "@id": "", Yet it is but for one night after all: What matters one brief night of dreary pain? Other articles where The City of Dreadful Night is discussed: James Thomson: …his sombre, imaginative poem “The City of Dreadful Night,” a symbolic expression of … While thou dost not awake I cannot move; And something tells me thou wilt never wake, And I alive feel turning into stone. 70 The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. He saith you Want my prize beneath that cloud of thirst does it treat him harshly as saith. Poet, journalist and author, speak not of comfort Where no comfort is, speak not of Where... Seems hopeless to the heart forlorn: can we not bear these years of laboring?. Right then the City in 1857 and his status as a condition of human life.. 12. by James Thomson long poem by the Scottish poet James `` B.V. Thomson. 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