Classic Poem

A NARROW brooklet ill befits
The ship in gallant trim,
Destin'd across the ocean-waves
With precious freight to swim.

So, too, the heart confin'd to earth
A stranded object lies;
Meant by its Maker to maintain
Communion with the skies.

O my poor bark, so long aground,
Expand thy drooping sail;
Forsake the shallow inland coast,
And catch the open gale.

It ill becomes thine origin,
Thy destiny sublime,
To lie immers'd in vanities
Upon the shoal of time.

Let not a petty earthly pool
That noble keel detain,
Bound with immortal freight to cross
Th' illimitable main!