Classic Poem

He was—and is not—without sign
Its latest breathings heaved,
Lies the once mighty clay supine,
Of such a soul bereaved.
While earth as pulseless—stricken dumb—
The tidings hath received;
And muses on the latest hour
Of him—the man of fate—
Nor knows if to the blood-stained power
Of mortal tread as great,
In all the ages yet to come
Her dust shall palpitate.

Glitt'ring in royal state, adored,
I saw him—and was mute;
Next, with swift change, o'erthrown—restored—
Last, trampled under foot;
While, thousand-voiced, acclaimed the throng,
My muse spake no salute,
By servile praise and cowardly taunt
That fallen glory strips,
Alike unstained, she wakes to chant
So bright a star's eclipse;
And to his urn one deathless song
Now pours from virgin lips.

The Alps and Pyramids alike,
The Tagus and the Rhine,
Have seen his bolts of thunder strike,
His lurid lightnings shine;
He burst where Don and Scylla roll,
And blazed from brine to brine;
Was this true glory? wherefore ask?
To after ages leave
The arduous sentence—ours the task
The image to perceive,
Of which the Maker willed his soul
Should largest stamp receive.

The stormy nature's rapturous thrill
In great designs conceived—
The heart's unrest that nought could still
Till empire was achieved;
And grasped the prize in which before
But madness had believed.
All—all he tasted—boast of fame
Enhanced as danger's prize—
The victor's crown—flight's bitter shame—
The throne—the exile's sighs—
Twice o'er to dust abased—twice o'er
Exalted to the skies.

His name was heard when armed for strife,
Two warring centuries
Clashed in a jar with discords rife,
Yet hung on his decrees,
As umpire he pronounced their fate,
And hushed them at his knees.
He fell—to wear out empty days—
Bound by a narrow isle:
A mark for envy's rabid gaze—
Compassion's pitying smile—
For inextinguishable hate,
And love nought could beguile.

As o'er some shipwrecked wretch the surge
Sweeps with o'erwhelming might,
In waves which late from verge to verge
He scanned with straining sight,
Still hoping in the futile quest,
On distant shores to light;
So on that soul with gathered weight,
Did tides of memory roll,
And oft he purposed to narrate
His deeds, and oft the scroll
To all futurity addrest,
From his tired fingers stole.

And oft as to still twilight paled
Day's apathetic rest,
He stood, his meteor glances veiled,
Arms folded on his breast,
By crowding memories assailed,
Of all that life held best;
Rehearsing how the tents rose fair,
'Mid echoing vales and meads,
The gleam of arms in serried square,
The surge of charging steeds,
And swift commands to which ne'er failed
Fulfilment of swift deeds.

Ah! by such bitter grief unmanned,
His spirit had been driven
To dark despair, had not a hand
In mercy stretched from Heaven,
Shown regions where to wing its way
To the soul's flight is given;
And led him on to pathways bright
With hope that never ends,
Through fields eternal, to delight
That all desire transcends;
Where darkling dies the fleeting ray
That earthly glory sends.

Oh Faith! immortal, blest, benign,
Proclaim thy triumphs loud,
Add to their record one more line,
For never soul so proud
To the mysterious shame divine
Of Golgotha hath bowed.
Nor let reproach for earthly fault
His weary dust offend,
The God who humbles to exalt,
Chastises to befriend,
Did to his dying couch incline,
To bless his lonely end.