Classic Poem

BY THOMAS H. SHREVE .

Before we hear the mournful chime
Of Sadness falling on the hours,
Before we feel the winds of Time
Like frost-breath on the heart's wild flowers. —

We stand by Life's mysterious stream,
Viewing the stars reflected there;
And dream not that each vivid gleam
Can ever be o'ercast by care.

But as its murmurs gently rise,
The lute's soft magic haunts each tone; —
We hear not stricken hearts' sad sighs,
Or dark-browed Grief's unwelcome moan.

Like some weird sybil, Fancy, then.
The Future's tale breathes on the heart,
Conjuring up heroic men
And women acting angels' part.

And Hope, like some wild artist, too,
Sketches Life's scenery to the eye,
Where, spell-bound by each dazzling view,
We see no sorrowing forms pass by.

That fair and gentle siren, Love,
Breathes her sweet tones upon the wind,
And glorious women graceful move
Before us, beautiful and kind:

Fame whispers to the eager ear
Of mighty triumphs to be won,
Of laurels which no time shall sear,
And banners flaunting in the sun.

She points us to the lordly few
Whose brows no shades oblivious wear, —
Entranced by them, we do not view
The ghosts of thousands murmed there.

Thus dreams the enthusiast youth, who stands
Beside Life's dark, mysterious stream,
And gazes on the fairy lands
Which brightly on his vision beam.

Like mirage on the desert's wastes
His future in the distance smiles;
And onward as he eager hastes,
It still deceives him and beguiles.

Or like those islands ever green
Amid the ocean's heaving main,
Which dreaming mariners have seen,
But which no eye hath seen again.

Life is not formed of flattering dreams,
But duties which rouse up the soul,
While, here and there, there shoot star-gleams
To light the laborer to his goal.