The House-Top

by Herman Melville

　　

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July, 1863 A Night Piece!No sleep. The sultriness pervades the airAnd binds the brain—a dense oppression, suchAs tawny tigers feel in matted shades,Vexing their blood and making apt for ravage.Beneath the stars the roofy desert spreadsVacant as Libya. All is hushed near by.Yet fitfully from far breaks a mixed surfOf 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-ratsAnd rats of the wharves. All civil charmsAnd priestly spells which late held hearts in awe—Fear-bound, subjected to a better swayThan 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 rollOf black artillery; he comes, though late;In code corroborating Calvin's creedAnd cynic tyrannies of honest kings;He comes, nor parlies; and the Town, redeemed,Gives thanks devout; nor, being thankful, heedsThe 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.

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