Classic Poem

He who towards the Orient Land
A light ship guided — not his own,
Now steers towards his native strand
A bark gold-laden — his alone.

More oft than any other star
Love's Planet he hath fondly eyed,
That safely guided him from far
To where resides his darling bride.

Yet to the goal he hath not come,
Though now within the gates he strays;
How may he find his darling's home
Amid the city's wildering maze?

How may his glance perceive her form?
Walls everywhere his prospect bound.
How, 'mid the market's wordy storm,
May he detect her voice's sound?

Behold a hand yon window close,
Perchance she thence but lately gazed;
Behold you veil that downward flows;
Conceals it not the face he praised?

Still wanders he from street to street,
Where now dim twilight's shadow dwells;
He wanders on with weary feet,
A tireless heart his steps impels.

What stays his pace, what happy proof?
What strains are those, what voice divine?
'Twas not for naught that o'er the roof
He saw love's trusty Planet shine!