Classic Poem

Why sigh we for the times of yore,
The “good old times” that come no more?
The oldest day was once to-day;
Each hour wore in its settled place
As every day a garb and face
As those which glide from us away.

Nature grows never old:
On every dawning soul she dawns anew,
And grows and ripens with their growth;
Only to spirits which have lost their youth,
The heart of love and sense sincere and true,
Her living forms seem cold.

Sigh not for ancient days with poetry rife,
To poets is the poetic age not fled;
Go let the dead inter their dead,
For to the living there is always life,
Nature has still fresh founts of art
To pour into the artist's heart;
To eyes fresh bathed in morning dew,
The Golden Age shines ever new.
Do ocean billows foam less gladly now,
Than when the sea-nymphs danced upon the wave?
Curl they less proudly 'neath the swift ship's prow,
Upheaving from the coral cave?
Sing they a song less syren sweet,
At noontide bathing weary feet,
Languidly smiling,
Softly beguiling,
Like lips that faintly move,
Murmuring words of love?
Do forest streams less freshly well,
Dewing with green the grassy dell,
Giving the thirsty flowers to drink,
Filling their starry eyes with joy,
Shedding cool fragrance on the air,
Than when the wood-nymphs sported there?
Or does the waterfall's robe, silver-pale,
Wave in the breeze less lightly
Than when the Naiad's moonlit veil
Gleamed through the dark trees brightly?
Has evening a less golden sheen?
Has morning a less rosy glow?
Are noon-day's arrowy rays less keen
Than when Apollo strung the bow?
And when at morn in spring
The sun with kisses wakes the earth,
And sun-born showers of golden rain
With floods of melody pour forth—
Say, are not light and music one again?

Sigh not the old heroic ages back,
The heroes were but brave and earnest men;
Do thou but hero-like pursue thy track,—
Striving, not sighing, brings them back again!
The hero's path is straight, to do and say
God's words and works in spite of toil and shame:
Labours enough will meet thee in thy way,
So thou forsak'st it not to seek for them
Canst thou no wrong with courage patient bear,
Strength to none weaker than thyself impart?
O seek from Him who died the hero's heart,
And the heroic age for thee is there.

Sigh not for simple days of old,
The child-like days of love and trust;
There never was an age of gold,
And faith makes gold of all earth's dust
The Church's youthful strength grows never gray,
Herself a fadeless youth amid the world's decay.
Canst thou not love? has earth no room
For all thy heart would give,
With all the blessed depths of home,
And myriad hearts that weep and strive?
Are there no desolate and poor
To nourish from thy store?
No songs of joy and glowing praise
Thy voice might help to raise?
No heart long left alone
Till it grew stiff and chill;
Thy voice might waken with a thrill
Of love, long, long unknown?
Is earth too small to hold
The yearnings of thy love?
Is there not heaven above
As near thee as of old?
Does He who came at Pentecost
His presence now withhold,
That the first works should e'er be lost,
Or the first love grow cold?
Oh, fill thy heart with God, and thou shalt prove
That there is left enough to trust and love!

For what is time past but to-day,
Mirrored in still pools peacefully;
The future but the same to-day,
Reflected in a heaving sea?
Only the present hour has life,
The home of work, the field of strife
Choose not thy bride among the dead,
But press the Present to thy breast;
In her, thy soul shall find its bread,
Thy mind its sphere, thy heart its rest:
Till God shall speak another “Let there be,”
And time, like darkness before light, shall flee
Before the Now of His eternity.