Classic Poem

By William Ellery Channing.

The pipes no longer sound in gladness,
Nor glisten arms beneath the sun;
They fold their hands in utter sadness,
The eager day is sadly done.

Over the tottering bridge are going —
That wavers in the misty wind —
Some fugitives, few looks bestowing
Upon the stained field behind.

The bridge is high upon the mountain,
It was a long ascent to climb;
Beneath, leaps through a mirthful fountain,
Below, the landscape lies sublime:

Green fields that yield to toil's devotion
The heaped-up granary's golden load,
Encircled by the azure ocean —
The lovely land of man's abode.

Above them, where their steps retreating
Seek shelter with the mountain chain,
The misty wind their entrance greeting,
Enfolds them in a dizzy rain.

'Yond the gray rocks the sun is streaming,
On boldly through the threatening storm:
The peaceful clouds float softly dreaming,
The vale is beautiful and warm.