Classic Poem

Wherever we be,
On the land or sea,
A river is rolling restlessly;
It furrows the plain,
And it sweeps the main,
Then flows to the mountain, back again.
And dark as night
Is the withering blight
That follows its track on left and right;
For thousands down to its borders stray,
And thousands are taking their weary way,
Whose feet will slide
By the river's side.
And carry them down for aye.

And if on its bosom once they sail,
None ever return to tell the tale
Of the opening grave,
Far under the wave,
That swallowed their bark so frail.
Full oft we hear
Of this river drear,
It is rolling far, and it's rolling near;
In the distant and by the Crimean sea,
It hath swayed its waters heavily;
Nor calms its tide as it westward comes
To take its course through our quiet homes.

We see it not in its onward way,
And yet on its banks we careless stray;
We look on the landscape bright and fair
Nor think of the river running there
By its gloomy shore we rise and rest,
For a mist hangs over the river's breast;
We love and hope, and we fondly dream,
Close, ever close, to the swelling stream.

And not till we miss from our hearth and home
One who has just in its wave gone down —
Not till we call, but call in vain,
Wishing the wanderer back again,
Does the shadowy mist from the stream arise,
And show us where the dark river lies.

And thus has it opened to our view,
Just where't has ever been gliding through;
We can hear it now, as it gurgles by,
We can see who are going down to die;
For the stream is sounding its sullen roar,
And it runneth swift by our cottage door.

And far on its waters, cold and dim,
A child is sinking — we mourn for him,
We can see the light on his wavy hair,
And his pale young brow, as he's floating there;
Floating alone,
And now he's gone;

But yet in the wave where the boy went down,
Another one stands,
With her aged hands,
Unlinking herself the circling bands
That would hinder her way o'er the heaving track,
And still to the shore would hold her back;

They are loosened now, and she fearless goes
Far out where the little one sunk and rose,
But her limbs are faint and are growing chill,
She can not baffle the flood at will,
For fourscore years are upon the brow
Of her who is crossing the river now.

" The tide is swift, and it runneth high, "
She says, as she marks it with her eye,
" And the way is dark, but I see the gleam
Of the fields that lie beyond the stream,
And I fear it not — I come, I come;
The river is deep, but 'twill carry me home. "
And see! as the waters rise and sink,
A strong man comes to the river's brink,
Nor heedeth the loving arms on shore,
That are clinging fast — they can cling no more, —
For the stream is washing his wavering feet,
And its cold embrace he must yielding meet;
For it lifts him up in its arms so wide,
And hurries him over the darksome tide.

Nor back to shore will they come again;
We shall watch the waters all in vain
For the child that left us so young and fair;
For the aged saint with her silver hair;
Or the stalwart man in his power and pride,
Who helpless sank by the river-side.

And the mist will gather around the stream,
Again on its banks will we sit and dream,
And heedless be, as we were before,
Though close as then to the dangerous shore;
For wherever we be,
On the land or sea,
A river is rolling restlessly,
That draws to its bosom the great and small,
It has gathered some — it will gather all,
Then bury itself in the unknown sea,
In the measureless depths of eternity.