Classic Poem

O, WHERE is the place where the sad heart may rest,
And hush all its sorrows and fears?
O, can the wide world show a region so blest,
Where the Ice Spirit never appears?

It chills the warm current of life in the veins,
To feel but his terrible breath:
He flutters his wings o'er the gardens and plains;
They are still and as silent as death.

The stream in yon meadow that sparkles so gay,
And, murmuring, hurries along,
The Ice Spirit shall stop in its flowery way,
And silence its heart-touching song.

He delighteth to nip the Spring's early blossom;
He darkens e'en poverty's gloom;
He pillows his head on the maniac's bosom;
His home is the dark, narrow tomb.

But, when some fond heart with friendship that glows,
O'erburdened with sorrow and care,
On the bosom beloved would seek for repose,
And finds but the Ice Spirit there—

Then cruel and deep is the Ice Spirit's sting;
The world no relief can impart;
Nor time, nor forgetfulness ever can bring
A cure for this wound of the heart.

Then where is the place where the wretched may rest,
And forget every sorrow and care?
'T is Heaven alone is the region so blest,
For the Ice Spirit never comes there.