Classic Poem

19.

Then, weeping, started he,
And spake aloud to vacancy:
" Here again, thou King of Pain?
Me, thy God, dost thou defy?
Mocking still, thou strong in ill,
Sneerest thou, Mine Enemy?
Nought art thou, if not my slave.
Yet thou biggen'st, like the grave
To the sentenc'd felon's fears,
When the ghastly yerge he nears!
Slave and Rebel! dost thou frown?
Dost thou threaten? Thou dost well:
I will dash thine altars down,
Shake thee from thy horrid throne,
Stamp thee back to hell.
But what beauteous form and face
Fold'st thou in thy vast embrace?
Let me look upon the face
Folded in thy dread embrace:
Oh, those locks — those lips of snow,
Eyes of death, and cheeks of woe,
Freeze me into stone! "

20.

But, soon, his grief was lost in ire,
That purpled his worn cheek.
Clench'd were his hands, his lips compress'd.
A life of wrongs groan'd in his breast,
Eager, in deeds, to speak;
Like conflagration, smouldering long
Ere flames the strength that mocks the strong,
When up the red Niagara raves,
And rafters swim on fiery waves,
And night glares red o'er burning graves,
And streets of roofs expire.

Book II.

Go, Ellen, visit Conisbro
When gusty Autumn's wildest day
To the grey ruin's age and woe
Shall wild and fitting homage pay.
Then shall his shadow in the sun
Make stormy sunshine doubly fair;
Beneath shall wail the flooded Dun;
And Music's Muse shall meet thee there.
Start not Eliza's form to see
That castled mound's brown shades among;
But bless the dead maid's melody,
Nor marvel if " her speech is song. "
To die is but to put off sin,
As morn puts off night's vapour foul;
The dead are learners, who begin
To sing the music of the soul.
They teach the born-in-heav'n to feel
How angel-voic'd are human woes;
And tempt the heav'nly-born to steal
From earth, the smile of sorrow's rose.
Oh, beautiful in tears, to them
Who know not grief, that flower may seem,
Reflected on its thorny stem,
In mortal life's impassion'd stream!