Classic Poem

A SKETCH .

Why , what a Paradise is earth to-day!
Some heavy torpor, sure, hath locked my soul
In dull, unvarying listlessness 'till now! —
Some envious film hath, sure, obscured my sight,
And veiled this world of beauty from my view,
For long, long years! — Yon ever-glorious sun
Darts his life-giving beams upon my heart,
And stirs it to a deeper sense of bliss,
Than e'er it felt before. My pulses grow
Instinct with new existence, — fresher life; —
And all around me gathers, as I gaze,
Hues of a more pervading loveliness
Than it was wont to wear! The clouds above
Stream on like molten silver; now and then
Fretted with crimson tinges, — and anon
Streaked with the deep blue of the upper sky
That spreads and spreads behind them in a sea
Of living sapphire. Multitudes of forms,
Palpably bright and beautiful, are moving
Athwart the depths of the eternal heavens,
Making an unimaginable theme
For after-thought to dwell upon! I see
(So Fancy in her wayward mood would deem)
File upon file of rich and gorgeous shapes,
Advancing, and advancing without end,
Bearing the banners of the Lord of Hosts!

Throned in a car, inwoven of the beams
Of the descending sun, whose flashing wheels
Leave a long trail of glory as they speed,
Towers the mighty and majestic form
Of the imperial Captain; — H IM who led
The forces of the' Omnipotent against
The dark and daring Lucifer, and hurled
The " race rebellious" to " combustion down"
And " bottomless perdition!" On his brow —
His starry brow — a coronal is wreathed,
Worthy the temples of the King of Kings.
His shining sword is sheathless, — and its blade —
Like a death-dooming meteor ere it falls
In ruin upon earth — flashes in light,
In terrible light, whichever way it turns!
Celestial scorn, — defiance without pride,
And all the wrath the son of God may own,
Hath curled his lip in " beautiful disdain;"
His deep eye streams in lightning; — and he grasps
Ten thousand thousand thunders!

On the distance,
A huge and moving mass appears to rise
Darkening the air. I look again, and lo!
Myriads of forms, in phalanx firm conjoined,
Rush on to ruin in one turbulent host
Against the great Messiah! In the van,
The master-demon lifts his lordly crest,
In fierce and insolent triumph; and abroad
Waves his tremendous falchion! In his eye,
Pride — Hate — Ambition — Cruelty — are glassed,
As in a mirror. O'er his lofty front
His ebon locks, Medusa-like, are wreathed
In many a snaky fold; and on his brow,
Undiademed, are throned revenge sublime,
Bloated defiance, lust of pomp and power,
And resolution — not to be subdued.

The hostile bands move on, and now have gained
Midway the arch of heaven! — They pause awhile; —
Then to the charge; — and straight from pole to pole,
The brunt of battle rings! —

The sun hath dropped
Into the blushing bosom of still eve,
And with it the bright pageant too hath vanished!
The clash of helm and shield, the bray of war,
Fancy had wafted on my dreaming ear,
Have sunk to silence. Not a breath disturbs
The " deep serene" around me; and above,
Rises a lofty cupola of sky,
In blue, eye-soothing beauty and repose!
No battling seraphim are there; but clouds
Slow sailing on, in placid loveliness,
Like pleasure-barks upon a summer sea.
No shields and helms shine forth in dazzling lustre;
But where the God of day hath left his smile,
Are countless hues, chameleon-like, that change
As the glance strives to trace them, and become
Momently paler than before. Anon,
Twilight begins to weave her fairy web
Of light and gloom, and, from the deepening East,
Night spreads her ebon arms to clasp the world!