Classic Poem

O WAYWARD , weird, and mystic soul,
Whose meteoric pace
Outstripped the pigmy orbs that roll
In grooves of commonplace;
Like aerolites from heaven that fall
Thy works were tossed and piled,
Thy Raven brooding over all, —
Fit crest for sorrow's child.

Hadst thou been born when heroes reigned,
And hailed the bard a seer,
A poet's largesse thou hadst gained,
And stepped a prince's peer;
Or e'en to-day when keener thirst
For deeper fountains longs,
Beneath thy magic touch had burst
A Horeb of high songs.

But on thee lay the curse of toil,
The child-devouring sire,
For life's imperious needs to moil,
And drop the golden lyre.
Yet its rare raptures round us float,
As of a cindered star,
Dead aeons since, the rays remote
Still reach us from afar.