He scarcely can believe the blissful change, He weeps perchance who wept not while accurst; Never again will he approach the range Infected by that evil spell now burst: Poor wretch! Find helpful customer reviews and review ratings for The City of Dreadful Night at Amazon.com. I stood a few steps backwards, desolate; And watched the spirits pass me to their fate, And fling off hope, and enter at the gate. No one would cede a little of his store, Though knowing that in instants three or four He must resign the whole for evermore. Thus has the artist copied her, and thus Surrounded to expound her form sublime, Her fate heroic and calamitous; Fronting the dreadful mysteries of Time, Unvanquished in defeat and desolation, Undaunted in the hopeless conflagration Of the day setting on her baffled prime. I wandered in a suburb of the north, And reached a spot whence three close lanes led down, Beneath thick trees and hedgerows winding forth Like deep brook channels, deep and dark and lown: The air above was wan with misty light, Low-seated she leans forward massively, With cheek on clenched left hand, the forearm's might Erect, its elbow on her rounded knee; Across a clasped book in her lap the right Upholds a pair of compasses; she gazes With full set eyes, but wandering in thick mazes Of sombre thought beholds no outward sight. O spectral wanderers of unholy Night! My heart is sick with anguish for your bale; Your woe hath been my anguish; yea, I quail And perish in your perishing unblest. Best-known for the epic poem “The City of Dreadful Night,” Thomson composed bleak portraits of urban and emotional landscapes. And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope Of all our universe, with desperate hope To find some solace for your wild unrest. James B.V. Thomson. Our isolated units could be brought To act together for some common end? }, "isFamilyFriendly": true, City Of Dreadful Night Book Description : Introduced by Edwin Morgan. The City of Dreadful Night is a study in melancholia and the introverted mind. "@type": "WebSite", The City of Dreadful Night, he wrote to George Eliot, “was the outcome of much sleepless hypochondria.” It is not the utterance of a sane mind; but, whatever one may think about the sanity of the poem, nobody can fail to recognise, and feel, its sincerity. "@type": "ListItem", For this is law, if law there be in Fate: What never has been, yet may have its when; The thing which has been, never is again. This chance was never offered me before; For me this infinite Past is blank and dumb: This chance recurreth never, nevermore; Blank, blank for me the infinite To-come. A haggard filthy face with bloodshot eyes, An infamy for manhood to behold. The City of Dreadful Night is deeply invested in thinking spatially: the title offers us a city, Faith dies in a tower, Love is “stabbed by its own worshipped pair” in a villa, and Hope dies of starvation in a “squalid house.”65 Thomson also maps his imaginary city, describing a “river [which] girds the city … 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. As far as I can tell, though, there are no relationship between this novel and the poem or in other of the many works that have their root in the poem. 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. The hours are heavy on him and the days; The burden of the months he scarce can bear; And often in his secret soul he prays To sleep through barren periods unaware, Arousing at some longed-for date of pleasure; Which having passed and yielded him small treasure, He would outsleep another term of care. \"Nay, does it treat him harshly as he saith? The uncertainty reflects the changes taking place in Victorian Era; the poem was written in 1873, only a few decades after the Industrial Revolution had taken place. ga('send', 'event', 'Video İzleme', 'Videolu Şiir Ziyaretçi', 'it'); Quotes from all famous poets. 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. "addressRegion": "San Francisco", Quotes from all famous poets. we had a dreadful time beneath that cloud of thirst! He snarled, What thing is this which apes a soul, And would find entrance to our gulf of dole Without the payment of the settled toll? Thomson, written between 1870 and 1873, and published in the National Reformer in 1874, then in 1880 in a book entitled The City of Dreadful Night and Other Poems. EMBED. if (/ip(hone|od|ad)|blackberry|android|windows (ce|phone)|symbian|avantgo|blazer|compal|elaine|fennec|hiptop|iemobile|iris|kindle|lge |maemo|midp|mmp|opera m(ob|in)i|palm( os)?|phone|p(ixi|re)\/|plucker|pocket|psp|symbian|treo/i.test(navigator.userAgent)) { And then with sudden change, Take thought! } If we could near them with the flight unflown, We should but find them worlds as sad as this, Or suns all self-consuming like our own Enringed by planet worlds as much amiss: They wax and wane through fusion and confusion; The spheres eternal are a grand illusion, The empyrean is a void abyss. 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 his horror of urban dehumanization. If you could find, it would avail you naught; Seek elsewhere on the pathway of your own: For who of mortal or immortal race The lifetrack of another can retrace? Betrayed! James Thomson’s poem ‘The City of Dreadful Night’ heavily features pessimism, uncertainty and restless toward the transition of modernisation going through the country. var date = new Date(); The silence which benumbs or strains the sense Fulfils with awe the soul's despair unweeping: Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence! And this sole chance was frustrate from my birth, A mockery, a delusion; and my breath Of noble human life upon this earth So racks me that I sigh for senseless death. Kipling first discovered this work in his school holidays while he was at United Services College [Martin Fido, p. 30]. Our life's a cheat, our death a black abyss: Hush and be mute envisaging despair.-- This vehement voice came from the northern aisle Rapid and shrill to its abrupt harsh close; And none gave answer for a certain while, For words must shrink from these most wordless woes; At last the pulpit speaker simply said, With humid eyes and thoughtful drooping head:-- My Brother, my poor Brothers, it is thus; This life itself holds nothing good for us, But ends soon and nevermore can be; And we knew nothing of it ere our birth, And shall know nothing when consigned to earth: I ponder these thoughts and they comfort me. But I renounce all choice of life or death, For either shall be ever at thy side, And thus in bliss or woe be ever well.-- He murmured thus and thus in monotone, Intent upon that uncorrupted face, Entranced except his moving lips alone: I glided with hushed footsteps from the place. James Thomson, who wrote under the pseudonym Bysshe Vanolis, was a Scottish Victorian-era poet famous primarily for the long poem The City of Dreadful Night (1874), an expression of bleak pessimism in a dehumanized, uncaring urban environment. "name": "MainPage", This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments' stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. ", }, A demon warder clutched me, Not so fast; First leave your hopes behind!--But years have passed Since I left all behind me, to the last: You cannot count for hope, with all your wit, This bleak despair that drives me to the Pit: How could I seek to enter void of it? "name": "James Thomson" "sameAs": ["https://www.facebook.com/PoemHunterCom", "https://twitter.com/PoemHunter", "https://www.instagram.com/poemhunter"], That I have failed is proved by my return: The spark is quenched, nor ever more will burn, But listen; and the story you shall learn. ... "I joined some friends last night," he said, "in what they called a spree; "@type": "ImageObject", He gasped all trembling, What, you want my prize? "text": "Per me si va nella citta dolente. Even Thomson himself was happy for a good deal of his life, and other’s among his collected poems, such as ‘Sunday Up the River’ are joyous celebrations of bourgeois domesticity. My soul hath bled for you these sunless years, With bitter blood-drops running down like tears: Oh dark, dark, dark, withdrawn from joy and light! "streetAddress": "548 Market St. PMB 90333" From Wikisource. The City of Dreadful Night is my response to the 1874 poem of the same name by James Thomson which dealt with depression, alienation, suicide and the urban landscape. This was the festival that filled with light That palace in the City of the Night. "name": "The City Of Dreadful Night", Large elm-trees stood along that river-walk; And under one, a few steps from my seat, I heard strange voices join in stranger talk, Although I had not heard approaching feet: These bodiless voices in my waking dream Flowed dark words blending with sombre stream:-- And you have after all come back; come back. Thomson, written between 1870 and 1873, and published in the National Reformer in 1874, then in 1880 in a book entitled The City of Dreadful Night and Other Poems… Because he seemed to walk with an intent I followed him; who, shadowlike and frail, Unswervingly though slowly onward went, Regardless, wrapt in thought as in a veil: Thus step for step with lonely sounding feet VII Some say that phantoms haunt those shadowy streets, And mingle freely there with sparse mankind; And tell of ancient woes and black defeats, And murmur mysteries in the grave enshrined: But others think them visions of illusion, Or even men gone far in self-confusion; No man there being wholly sane in mind. Broad steps ascended to a terrace broad Whereon lay still light from the open door; The hall was noble, and its aspect awed, Hung round with heavy black from dome to floor; And ample stairways rose to left and right Whose balustrades were also draped with night. Produced & Read by Charles Bryant (This is not a reading of the whole poem, which would have taken too long, but of probably around a half of the matter.) Upon an easy slope it lies at large And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest Which swells out two leagues from the river marge. If we have inadvertently included a copyrighted poem that the copyright holder does not wish to be displayed, we will take the poem down within 48 hours upon notification by the owner or the owner's legal representative (please use the contact form at http://www.poetrynook.com/contact or email "admin [at] poetrynook [dot] com"). "addressCountry": "USA", With these images, I sought to respond to the spaces or penumbra between Thomson’s words; to capture the poem’s feeling of dread, to transmute this to my own setting here in Trinidad and Tobago; to suggest his dread … XI What men are they who haunt these fatal glooms, And fill their living mouths with dust of death, And make their habitations in the tombs, And breathe eternal sighs with mortal breath, And pierce life's pleasant veil of various error To reach that void of darkness and old terror Wherein expire the lamps of hope and faith? We bow down to the universal laws, Which never had for man a special clause Of cruelty or kindness, love or hate: If toads and vultures are obscene to sight, If tigers burn with beauty and with might, Is it by favour or by wrath of Fate? 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 … "description": "Poems from different poets all around the world. "@type": "ListItem", for (var i = 0; i < ca.length; i++) { Quotes from all famous poets. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: From the right A shape came slowly with a ruddy light; A woman with a red lamp in her hand, Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand; O desolation moving with such grace! An alcoholic and insomniac, Thomson took nocturnal walks through London, the city he lived in and wrote about. Baffled and beaten back she works on still, Weary and sick of soul she works the more, Sustained by her indomitable will: The hands shall fashion and the brain shall pore, And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour, Till Death the friend-foe piercing with his sabre That mighty heart of hearts ends bitter war. Dissolveth like a dream of night away; Though present in distempered gloom of thought And deadly weariness of heart all day. "@type": "CreativeWork", Jump to navigation Jump to search. It’s a place full of masses of disconnected bodies merely surviving the unrelenting agony of existence. Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! I fell as on my bier, Hope travailed with such fear. }] The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night. XVII How the moon triumphs through the endless nights! If here the heart turns sick with ruth To see a little one from birth defiled, Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish To meet one erring in that homeless wild. }, , { It's a city of the mind, but real: a real unreal city. Written by the Scottish poet, James Thomson, himself a lifelong melancholic. That City's atmosphere is dark and dense, Although not many exiles wander there, With many a potent evil influence, Each adding poison to the poisoned air; Infections of unutterable sadness, Infections of incalculable madness, Infections of incurable despair. Search for poems and poets using the Poetry Search Engine. "name": "Poem Hunter", The City of Dreadful Night is a warning not to slide too far to one end of the scale, and let your worldview become an unbearable trap. THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT is a poem of pessimism, which, neither widely read nor popular, has, how- ever, a twofold value as a document of hu- manity and as an extraordinarily thorough and vivid representation of a sole, overmas- tering mood undesirable but undeniable. "@type": "Person", Classic Poem. "geo": { \"While air of Space and Time's full river flow The mill must blindly whirl unresting so: It may be wearing out, but who can know? 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. I paced from room to room, from hall to hall, Nor any life throughout the maze discerned; But each was hung with its funereal pall, And held a shrine, around which tapers burned, With picture or with statue or with bust, all copied from the same fair form of dust: A woman very young and very fair; Beloved by bounteous life and joy and youth, And loving these sweet lovers, so that care And age and death seemed not for her in sooth: Alike as stars, all beautiful and bright, these shapes lit up that mausolean night. "@type": "PostalAddress", "about":"Poems from different poets all around the world. document.cookie = name + "=" + value + expires; \"The world rolls round for ever like a mill; It grinds out death and life and good and ill; It has no purpose, heart or mind or will. You can read the full text here… "@type": "ImageObject", And then we heard a voice of solemn stress From the dark pulpit, and our gaze there met Two eyes which burned as never eyes burned yet: Two steadfast and intolerable eyes Burning beneath a broad and rugged brow; The head behind it of enormous size. V How he arrives there none can clearly know; Athwart the mountains and immense wild tracts, Or flung a waif upon that vast sea-flow, Or down the river's boiling cataracts: To reach it is as dying fever-stricken To leave it, slow faint birth intense pangs quicken; And memory swoons in both the tragic acts. Introduced by Edwin Morgan. whence, whither, and for whom? He turned to grope; and I retiring brushed Thin shreds of gossamer from off my face, And mused, His life would grow, the germ uncrushed; He should to antenatal night retrace, And hide his elements in that large womb Beyond the reach of man-evolving Doom. This dreadful strain Of thought and consciousness which never ceases, Or which some moments’ stupor but increases, This, worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. The fragments of each scheme are exquisite- But though thus lighted it was deadly still As all the countless bulks of solid gloom; Perchance a congregation to fulfil Solemnities of silence in this doom, Mysterious rites of dolour and despair Permitting not a breath or chant of prayer? Perchance it is a Fate-appointed hearse, Bearing away to some mysterious tomb Or Limbo of the scornful universe The joy, the peace, the life-hope, the abortions Of all things good which should have been our portions, But have been strangled by that City's curse. 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. XVI Our shadowy congregation rested still, As musing on that message we had heard And brooding on that \"End it when you will;\" Perchance awaiting yet some other word; When keen as lightning through a muffled sky Sprang forth a shrill and lamentable cry:-- The man speaks sooth, alas! . Again I sank in that repose unsweet, Again a clashing noise my slumber rent; The warrior's sword lay broken at his feet: An unarmed man with raised hands impotent Now stood before the sphinx, which ever kept Such mien as if open eyes it slept. 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. Thomson, written between 1870 and 1873, and published in the National Reformer in 1874, then in 1880 in a book entitled The City of Dreadful Night and Other … }], 333 III Although lamps burn along the silent streets, Even when moonlight silvers empty squares The dark holds countless lanes and close retreats; But when the night its sphereless mantle wears The open spaces yawn with gloom abysmal, The sombre mansions loom immense and dismal, The lanes are black as subterranean lairs. "name": "James Thomson" ", I vow \"That not for all Thy power furled and unfurled, For all the temples to Thy glory built, Would I assume the ignominious guilt Of having made such men in such a world.\" \"As if a Being, God or Fiend, could reign, At once so wicked, foolish and insane, As to produce men when He might refrain! --Este texto se refiere a la edición kindle_edition. How the stars throb and glitter as they wheel Their thick processions of supernal lights Around the blue vault obdurate as steel! Life Thomson was born in Port Glasgow, Scotland, and, after his father suffered a stroke, he While thou dost not awake I cannot move; And something tells me thou wilt never wake, And I alive feel turning into stone. "@type": "Person", With such a living light these dead eyes shine, These eyes of sightless heaven, that as we gaze We read a pity, tremulous, divine, Or cold majestic scorn in their pure rays: Fond man! "postalCode": "CA 94104", } James B.V. Thomson. As I came through the desert thus it was, As I came through the desert: Lo you, there, That hillock burning with a brazen glare; Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro; A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell For Devil's roll-call and some fete of Hell: Yet I strode on austere; No hope could have no fear. "url": "https://poemhunter.com/assets/img/logo-footer.jpg", "description": "Poems from different poets all around the world. Nor did we lack our own right royal king, ⁠ The glory of our peaceful realm and race. 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. At length I heard a murmur as of lips, And reached an open oratory hung With heaviest blackness of the whole eclipse; Beneath the dome a fuming censer swung; And one lay there upon a low white bed, With tapers burning at the foot and head: The Lady of the images, supine, Deathstill, lifesweet, with folded palms she lay: And kneeling there as at a sacred shrine A young man wan and worn who seemed to pray: A crucifix of dim and ghostly white Surmounted the large altar left in night:-- The chambers of the mansion of my heart, In every one whereof thine image dwells, Are black with grief eternal for thy sake. Before it, opposite my place of rest, Two figures faced each other, large, austere; A couchant sphinx in shadow to the breast, An angel standing in the moonlight clear; So mighty by magnificence of form, They were not dwarfed beneath that mass enorm. \"I never knew another man on earth But had some joy and solace in his life, Some chance of triumph in the dreadful strife: My doom has been unmitigated dearth.\" \"We gaze upon the river, and we note The various vessels large and small that float, Ignoring every wrecked and sunken boat.\" \"And yet I asked no splendid dower, no spoil Of sway or fame or rank or even wealth; But homely love with common food and health, And nightly sleep to balance daily toil.\" \"This all-too-humble soul would arrogate Unto itself some signalising hate From the supreme indifference of Fate!\" \"Who is most wretched in this dolorous place? Have pity on me! We yearn for speedy death in full fruition, Dateless oblivion and divine repose. I think myself; yet I would rather be My miserable self than He, than He Who formed such creatures to His own disgrace. Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, A woman rarely, now and then a child: A child! From making hundreds laugh and roar with glee By my transcendent feats of mimicry, And humour wanton as an elvish sprite: I wake from daydreams to this real night. What merchandise? The City of Dreadful Night is a long poem by the Scottish poet James 'B.V'. they are not haughty, are not tender; There is no heart or mind in all their splendour, They thread mere puppets all their marvellous maze. James Thomson's epic poem The City Of Dreadful Night first appeared in 1874 and acheived in its day some fame and was read by many, but in the decades that followed the poem and the poet sank into obscurity, becoming known only to a few. }, James Thomson's epic poem The City Of Dreadful Night first appeared in 1874 and acheived in its day some fame and was read by many, but in the decades that followed the poem and the poet sank into obscurity, becoming known only to a few. From wandering through many a solemn scene Of opium visions, with a heart serene And intellect miraculously bright: I wake from daydreams to this real night. But soon A sharp and clashing noise the stillness broke, And from the evil lethargy I woke. }); Yet it is but for one night after all: What matters one brief night of dreary pain? Poem has not been translated into any other language yet the long curved Which... 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