Classic Poem

Thou, who oft at twilight hours
Through earth's garden wand'rest free,
Gathering golden fruits, bright flowers,
Planted there by God for thee,
Spare, O Death, the smiling prize,
Clinging to the quickening breast,
Lulled by soothing songs to rest,
Gazing at its mother's eyes!

Spare the earth's strong sons, Oh spare
Those in fervid strains who sing
Till throughout the forests bare
Joyously loud echoes ring.
Spare the sage's fires to slake,
Round whose holy sunlike glance
Hovering close in steady dance,
Youthful moons their circuits take.

Buoyed on clouds all silver-white
Seek, when Eve's bright star appears,
Him who, gray with age, each night
Consecrates his hearth with tears.
Name his loved ones gone from hence,
Place him in thy garland's rim,
Where no parting tears bedim
Eyes that beam with joys intense.

Seek the youth whose ardent breast
Love hath filled with fierce alarms,
Who, impelled by wild unrest,
Stretching out his open arms
Tow'rds the flow'r-strewn floor on high
Bright with stars, looks up love-warm;
Friendly take him arm in arm,
Bear him to yon far blue sky!

There, 'mid bridal pomp and mirth,
(Breathing love), may round him flow
All that stirred his heart on earth,
Greeting him with greetings low.
There his soul her holyday
Fresh with newer life, may keep,
Filled with inspiration deep,
Filled with songs that last for aye.