Classic Poem

Come, gentle trembler, come—for see,
Our hearths have lost their native fires;
The vacant world invites us,—we
Must go the heirless heirs of countless sires.

Let us away, the wild wolf's home
Were not so desolate as ours;
Beside the singing brooks we'll roam,
And seek a sweet community of flowers.

Here are the dwellings whence the few
We loved, departed; where they lead
We follow—these their tombs;—but who
Shall write our epitaphs, and who shall read?

Hark, how the light winds flow and ebb
Along the open halls forlorn;
See how the spider's dusty web
Floats at the casement, tenantless and torn!

The old, old Sea, as one in tears,
Comes murmuring with its foamy lips,
And knocking at the vacant piers,
Calls for its long-lost multitude of ships.

Against the stone-ribbed wharf, one hull
Throbs to its ruin like a breaking heart:
Oh, come, my breast and brain are full
Of sad response—Let Silence keep the mart!