Classic Poem

" A thousand years have faded like a dream
Since the first birth of time;
On either side of our Assyrian stream
Unnumbered cities climb,

" With obelisks and haughty spires,
The blue abysmal sky;
On altars of rich carving, perfumed fires
Are tended carefully:

" And ever in the marble colonnades,
And streets as sunshine bright,
With melodies of love, the dark-haired maids
Give life to the dull night:

" And smiles are interchanged, without control,
With full and happy sighs;
New lights have dawned upon the human soul,
And taught it to be wise.

" How would our ancient father, full of woes,
Rejoice that it is so,
Had not the thing within, which feels, and knows,
Fled from him like a foe;

" We too, his children, must like him bow down
To that abhorred power,
Alas! no maiden's smile, no warrior's frown,
Can wring from it one hour.

" Even now, to think of Death , who mixes grief
With all things that delight;
Our chilled hearts tremble, as the sapless leaf
Shakes in an eastern blight.

" Oh! that some spirit, Mild, and Wise, and Good,
Would teach us how to keep
The life for ever young within the blood;
Secure of that last sleep;

" Then should we never suddenly let fall
The wine-cup at our lips;
Then should we live, and love, together all,
In mirth without eclipse.

" Thou art a prophet, father, call aloud
Unto the God of truth,
That he may chase this overhanging cloud
From the bright skies of youth:

" How can the Lord of mercy vex mankind
With knowledge such as this,
When every living thing around is blind
In unalarmed bliss?

" Like one pale coward, who trembles in a host
Of heroes flushed with hope,
When the shrill trumpet sound is tossed
Down some long grassy slope —

" Like one unwelcome guest, in some bright hall
Thronged with the beautiful,
Who troubleth all that gorgeous festival
With aspect strange and dull,

" Such, amid all the merriment, and bliss,
Which this life furnisheth,
The many joys of love, and wine, is this ,
The single thought of death.

" Call, therefore, prophet, on thy worshipped sire,
The distant God, and cold,
And all the wide earth's monarchs shall conspire
To fill thy home with gold. "

Thus amid moonlit palaces, and towers,
And columned halls of pride,
The young and gay, crowned with ambrosial flowers,
Spoke sad, and downward-eyed;

They spoke to one, who sat upon the ground,
Under a cypress tree,
And heard, or seemed to hear the heavy sound
Of an advancing sea.

The noise of mighty waters, evermore
Smote on his throbbing ears;
In sleep he heard unearthly screams, which tore
His lonely soul with fears:

And faces of drowned men came floating by,
Under the cold moon's ray,
Pale faces painted on his straining eye,
That would not pass away.

And viewless messengers about him trod,
With footsteps echoing loud;
Wide shadows, from the secret form of God,
Fell on him like a cloud.

Thus his mind hung upon futurity,
In that all-evil time,
And saw, by heaven unrolled, before her lie
The map of human crime.

A secret influence, like wasting flame,
Withered him day and night,
Till every thing he used to love, became
As nothing in his sight.

Strength melted from his mighty limbs, and sleep
Touched not his burning eye;
Often he sat, without the power to weep,
And only prayed to die.

Alas! no earthly spirit can sustain,
By her inherent force,
Without convulsions of oppressive pain,
That dreadful intercourse:

Before all worlds, was it appointed so,
That it could not be given
To man, but with such agonies, to know
The secret things of heaven.

But at that time, the supernatural dread —
The spirit's secret chill —
Before some power of gentleness had fled,
Leaving him calm, and still.

All motionless had he been stretched for hours,
Under the dark tree's shade,
Dreaming of Eden's amaranthine bowers,
In heaven's own light arrayed:

The stars came out above that lonely place,
The river gurgled by,
The breeze played round and round his haggard face,
As if its home were nigh:

The gentle influence of declining day
Melted into his breast;
The balmy moonlight soothed him, and he lay
Cradled in perfect rest.

Why do the sons of Belial strive to break
That brief hour of repose?
Why, with these idle questionings, awake
His deep heart to its woes?

Say, is it not enough, without control,
Lapped in such bliss, to live,
Have they not satisfied, and filled the soul,
With all that earth can give?

No — vainly bloom for them the beautiful,
Vain is the mirthful din,
Love cannot chase, the red wine cannot dull,
The sleepless doubt within.

The smile, that lit the crowded hall last night,
Is seen no more to-day;
In the dark hours of sleep, a killing blight
Has made that flower its prey:

What, though the careless laugh is undestroyed?
Though still they drain the cup?
Her death in every bosom leaves a void,
Which nothing can fill up:

Again, some noble youth goes forth, to track
The lion through the wood:
A lifeless form of beauty is brought back,
Stained with his young heart's blood.

Day after day, their forced and fitful mirth
Sunk into deeper gloom,
Until, to all alike, the glad warm earth
Seemed rayless, as the tomb.

Then came they from the feast, in blank despair,
Seeking that lonely seer;
As if there needed but a prophet's prayer
To quench sorrow, and fear.

Alas! the mind which in its anguish flies
Still to the joys of earth,
To nought, but hollow sensualities,
And grovelling hope, gives birth.

They prayed, as if the deep laws of the sky,
Which in God's heart abide,
Coeval with his own eternity,
Could thus be set aside:

As if the Lord, that spirit pure and just,
Who sees the soul within,
Would give immortal life to this vile dust,
Or happiness to sin.

The rapt seer heard — he felt celestial ire
O'ermastering his will;
He started to his utmost height, as fire
Leaps from some caverned hill.

With pangs, on which no human eye could look,
Under some touch of power,
The prophet's mighty stature reeled and shook,
Like an imperial tower:

A brooding stillness covered all things near,
As if before a storm,
Until, like evil spirits, Pain and Fear
Fled from his stately form.

Then, as the dead upon a field of fight,
After a hard-fought day,
That impious multitude, in dumb affright,
Around the prophet lay.

His keen eye, sharper than a two-edged sword,
Smote on them from afar;
On his high front, the presence of the Lord
Sat like a burning star.

He spoke of those unquiet souls, which lie
Fast bound in chains of clay;
Of the strong hope of immortality
Thrown, like a weed, away;

Till all high aspirations, one by one,
Fade from the darkened heart;
As those brief splendours, which outlive the sun,
From the grey clouds depart.

" The world, " he said, " beyond their senses dim,
The realm of upper air,
Invisible to all on earth, but him,
Before his eye lay bare. "

Often, he said, with a deep sense of awe,
His heart within him died,
Rebuked by some high presence; and he saw
A spirit at his side:

And voices of strange music hovered near,
Denouncing death and woe;
Or demon laughters jarred upon his ear,
Mockingly cold, and slow.

He told them, how before his tranced eye,
From morn to eventide,
Visions of a sad future floated by:
And one there was, that cried —

" Let loose the wild winds in their destined flight,
For I, the Lord, must sweep
The offending sons of Adam from my sight:
Let loose the raging deep. "

The prophet paused — an awful shadow smote
The flower-enamelled sod —
A sound there was, as thunder heard remote,
And Enoch walked with God.