Classic Poem

What voice as of the tempest-trampled sea,
What turbulence of terror and delight,
What organ-peal, what solemn litany
Glamors along the quiet aisles of night?

What tocsin's moan through midnight silence falls,
What clash of arms, what hurrying to and fro,
While grimly serried on the fortress-walls,
The spearmen lean to watch the coming foe?

What is this wonder of a thousand eyes
That flashes far along the ancient street,
What throng is this that waits with mute surmise,
What clang of drums, what tread of marching feet?

What banners blaze from roof and balcony,
What scarfs from snowy shoulders glimmer down,
While—hark! the rending shout reels to the sky:
“It is the king who comes to claim his own!”

What chorus hymeneal in dim shades
Of aged oaks without the city's gate,
Where wreathed in May-tide flowers, the blooming maids
Lead up the loath young bride in blushing state?

What stir of wind wing-laden with perfume,
What low sweet laugh of slow-descending streams,
While curfew bells, far-floating through the gloom,
Pervade the night with peace and pleasant dreams?

It is the Chime—the graybeard on the tower—
Who dreams aloud of dead and buried things:
Of vanished glory and departed power,
And love that lived in long forgotten springs.

And like the flicker fanned in dying embers,
Old forms and faces gather round him fast;
His heart grows young again as he remembers,
Rhyme after rhyme, the poem of the past.

But soon his memory fails, his voice is gone,
His chant expires in hollow moans of pain;
He stares around and finds himself alone,
And sadly lays him down to sleep again.