Classic Poem

DEAR F RIEND ,

Free for an interval of time
To sleep or think, to read or rhyme, —
I hear yon steeple's measured chime,
With solemn weight,
Fling to the silent night sublime
The hour of eight.

Snug-seated by the chimney-cheek,
Too calmly indolent to speak, —
An evening custom through the week,
My tube of clay
Sends forth a light and odorous reek,
Like ocean spray.

The spiral cloud soars to the ceiling,
To Fancy's eye strange forms revealing,
Until I find around me stealing
So sweet a rest
That every kind and gentle feeling
Stirs in my breast.

(Thou tiny censer, burning slow,
Whose fire and fragrance soothe my woe,
I would not willingly forego
Thy quiet power
For all the dainty dazzling show
Of Fashion's hour.)

The flickering fire is dancing bright,
Dispensing genial warmth and light,
While beings pleasant to my sight
Are seated round;
And one doth read, and one doth write,
With scarce a sound.

Meanwhile, within the glowing grate
I see things wild and desolate, —
Rocks, mountains, towers, in gloomy state,
With other traces
Of monsters savagely sedate,
With gorgon faces.

But as I gaze they slowly change
To regions beautiful and strange,
Where lovely creatures seem to range
The red realm through;
Or English temple, cot, and grange,
Start into view.

Outside, the myriad-fingered rain
Is drumming on the window pane,
And the strong night-winds wail in vain
To enter here: —
Alas! they move upon the main
With wrath and fear!

And now my thoughts are sent afar
To where the peril-seeking tar,
Without the light of moon or star,
Battles aghast,
And hears his proud ship's sail and spar
Rent in the blast.

Poor souls! who tempt the dangerous wave,
Your home, your empire, and your grave,
When winds and waters round you rave
In mighty madness,
Who shall extend the hand to save,
And give ye gladness?

Upbuoyed on Ocean's heaving flood,
A thousand breathing beings stood,
The brave, the gifted, and the good,
But yesterday,
Till the storm came in maddest mood, —
And where are they?

God of the tempest-ridden sea!
The solemn secret rests with Thee, —
With finite sense we are not free
To scan thy law;
'Tis ours alone to bow the knee
In silent awe!

Thus the sad chiding of the wind
Wakes memories of a mournful kind,
Which pour upon the restless mind
A tranquil balm,
As thoughtful here I sit reclined,
Secure and calm.

And thinking on the sleepless sea,
" Hungering for peace, " I think of thee,
And how with friendly souls and free
We strayed together,
To talk and dream of Poesy,
In summer weather

I see that little rustic place
Where our " blithe friend, " with pleasant face,
Displayed with hospitable grace
Those goodly things,
Which quicken Time's lame, laggard pace,
And speed his wings.

The full o'erflowing of the breast,
The frank and unoffending jest,
The bright idea well expressed, —
The laugh and song;
The talk of Spenser, and the rest
Of Fancy's throng;

The antique chamber, warm and small,
The firelight flashing on the wall,
The social cup unmixed with gall, —
The whole delight
Passed like a vision to enthral
My memory quite.

Deferred too long, I seize my pen
(My wand of fancy now and then),
To tell you why, and where, and when
I scrawled this letter;
For in these courtesies, ye ken,
I am your debtor.

Yon crowded town, where stunned and tossed
I lingered long, and to my cost,
Caressed to-day — to-morrow crossed,
I've left at last;
And as I count the moments lost
I stand aghast.

And here I am, three leagues away,
Earning my dinner every day
As I was wont, before my lay
Found willing ears —
Without a single friend to say
" Put off thy fears. "

But yet I am not friendless — No!
My wife, fond sharer of my woe,
And Hope, that spirit-joy below,
Are with me still;
And God has blessings to bestow, —
I wait His will.

I have a corner in my heart
For thee, all generous as thou art;
For thou, like me, hast felt the smart
Of the world's wrong;
And thou art loth to live apart
From darling song.

And, therefore, do I wish to learn
If fortune's features grow less stern,
And if thou dost as yet discern
A brighter real,
Or if thy hidden thoughts still yearn
For the ideal.

Does Myra's cheek with gladness glow,
And her sweet mouth with laughter flow
As wont? Do all thy children grow
In sense and duty?
And does thy wife put off the woe
That veils her beauty?

With us the wretched rains and damps
Have turned the level fields to swamps,
And through the mist the drowsy lamps
Look dim and dreary;
But, save some fitful aches and cramps,
I'm well and cheery.

I've fallen in love, but not with Flora,
Nor Cynthia chaste, nor young Aurora,
Nor dark Gulnare, nor sweet Medora,
But with the shade
Of fair, fond, faithful fervent Zora,
A Syrian Maid!

Simply, I mean to weave a lay
Of love, to cheer me on my way;
And in my silent hours I pray
" God speed my pen, "
To which, methinks I hear you say
" Amen! Amen! "

Night wears, and, therefore, 'gainst my will,
I use the last drop in my quill
To tell thee I esteem thee still
In shade or shine;
And be our lot or good or ill,
I'm ever thine.