Classic Poem

Come , trip it with me gaily here,
The forest glade our ball-room is,
The ills of life shall disappear,
Or from the turf rebound in bliss

Blow, comrade, blow thy wheaten pipe,
Twang, brother, twang the trembling string,
Care gripes us with an iron gripe; —
To care the joyous heel we fling.

Their walls of stone but dungeons are,
To those who in great cities dwell,
'Neath roofs through which no sunbeam fair
Can reach the flowers we love so well

For us our last night's grassy bed
Kind nature makes up fresh again,
Ere drops the sun his weary head
Upon the bosom of the main

In sleep we hear the mystic powers
Of earth their subtile callings ply;
Awake, in brighter worlds than ours,
We read the marvels of the sky.

Once more, sweet partner, pipe again;
Twang fiercer, mates, the cittern's call;
For unseen spirits swell the strain
To which our feet keep festival.

An atom less, and we should be
Floating on rosy clouds of love;
A feather more, with pinions free,
Cleaving the paths of worlds above.

Thy drooping head my shoulder seeks,
Sweet partner of the wandering doom
Which poised 'twixt earth and heaven keeps
Us like Mohammed's pensile tomb.

The evening star sinks fast, and see!
Around us in the twilight shades,
The mystic throngs of old Chaldee,
Her patriarchs, matrons, braves and maids.

Blow softly while the ghostly crew
The cadence mark with statelier pace;
Are they so many — we so few?
O brothers, quick, one warm embrace!

They're gone! 'tis night; at dusk they come,
Those shades of our long-buried sires,
To follow us where'er we roam;
Now, comrades! to your evening fires.