A Night Piece

(July, 1863)

No sleep. The sultriness pervades the air



And binds the brain—a dense oppression, such



As tawny tigers feel in matted shades,



Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.



Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreads



Vacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.



Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surf



Of muffled sound, the atheist roar of riot.



Yonder, where parching Sirius set in drought



Balefully glares red Arson—there—and there.



The town is taken by its rats—ship-rats



And rats of the wharves. All civil charms



And priestly spells which late held hearts in awe—



Fear-bound, subjected to a better sway



Than sway of self; these like a dream dissolve,



And man rebounds whole aeons back in nature.



Hail to the low dull rumble, dull and dead,



And ponderous drag that shakes the wall.



Wise Draco comes, deep in the midnight roll



Of black artillery; he comes, though late;



In code corroborating Calvin’s creed



And cynic tyrannies of honest kings;



He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed,



Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heeds



The grimy slur on the Republic’s faith implied,



Which holds that Man is naturally good,



And—more—is Nature’s Roman, never to be scourged.





