Classic Poem

As when the storm is gathering round him fast,
And night and cloud obscure the traveller's way,
Hope fondly looks for some unfading ray,
While star by star declines, the brightest last;
Thus, oh my country, while that starry host,
The jewels of thy glory disappear,
And night and tempest blacken round, and fear
Tells of a ruined land and freedom lost!
To him, high-priest of all that sacred band,—
To him, the guardian of his country's law,—
The wise, the firm, the pure, who ever saw
The danger, and upraised his sheltering hand,
How have we looked! How shall we look in vain,
Mid darker days to come,—in Anarch's direful reign!