Classic Poem

Shall I sit and wait for Death,
With a sigh at every breath
For the hours of gladness flown,
From the present drear and lone?
Sit, abandoning all hope
Of a brighter horoscope?
Sit, as in a skiff that glides
Down some rapid's angry tides?
Sit, nor dash a valiant oar
To regain the rugged shore?
Yes! I'm weary of the fight;
Ajax-like, my smitten sight
Findeth neither in the day
Nor the night, a cheering ray;
Though the shore by which I glide
Is my native river-side,
And the hamlets that arise
Wear the old familiar guise;
Though yon steeple points the road
Pious forefathers have trod.

In the church, another voice
Bids the kneeling fold rejoice;
In the hall another squire
Sits before the yule-log fire;
All are strangers, — why should I
'Midst them tarry, but to die?