The Holiday Night

The night is fair, without a breath of wind,And on the roofs and gardens full of peaceThe moon reposes and reveals afarEach mountain all serene. O my beloved!The haunts of men are silent; in their homesRarely doth glimmer a nocturnal lamp.Thou art asleep, by gentle slumber wrappedWithin thy quiet room; no carking careDisturbs thy rest; nor dost thou know or thinkHow deep a wound thou openedst in my heart.Thou art asleep; I sally forth to greetThe firmament, to gaze on so benign,And Nature, mighty in her ancient ways,Who made me but for woe. "To thee be hopeDenied," she said, "even hope; and in thine eyesNo other light, save that of tears, may shine."This day was full of pleasure; from thy pastimeThou now dost take repose: perchance in dreamsThose who pleased thee and whom thyself did please,Thou seest; but not I, for all my hopes,Occur unto thy fancy. I, meanwhile,I ask myself how much of life remainsFor me to live, and here upon the earth,Moaning and shuddering, do I throw me downIn utter desolation. O ye daysSo full of horror for such early years!Ah, woe is me! Upon the road not farI hear a workman's solitary song;After his joyaunce, in late hours of nightHe is returning to his poor abode;And bitterly my heart is rent in twainWhen I consider all on earth doth passAnd leaveth not a trace. Behold! the dayOf joy is gone, and to its festive hoursThe day of toil succeeds, and time doth takeWhate'er belongs to man. Where, where is nowThe pride of ancient nations? Where the fameOf our renowned forefathers, and the vastDominion of old Rome, the clash of armsResounding o'er the ocean and the earth?All now is peace and silence, and the worldIs wrapped in rest, and speaks of them no more.In those beginning years, when eagerlyWe seek the festive day, I lay awakeWhen it was over, tossing full of griefUpon my bed; and in late hours of nightA song I heard upon the road without,Expiring in the distance by degrees,With equal sorrow rent my heart in twain.