Classic Poem

Long hushed is the harp that his glory had spoken,
Long stilled is the heart that could summon its strain;
Now its chords are all silent, or tuneless, or broken,
What touch can awaken its music again!

Ah, the breeze in the green dells of Erin is blowing!
If not her great bard yet her spirit can flame,
When proud where the waters of Shannon are flowing
Her groves and her temples re-echo his name.

Float softly o'er shamrocks, and blue-bells, and roses,
Blend all their gay tints and their odors in one;
And sweet as the zephyr in twilight that closes
Be the kiss of thy love on the brows of thy son!

Breathe tenderly o'er us, who cluster around him,
In this his glad moment of triumph and pride:
Deep, deep in our souls are the ties that have bound him,
And life will be lone, with his presence denied.

From the arms of the mother, in childhood a rover,
To exile he came, on the wanderer's shore:
To the arms of the mother, his trials all over,
And honored and laurelled, we yield him once more.

Speak low of affection that longs to embrace him,
Speak loud of the fame that awaits him afar,—
When homage shall hail him, and beauty shall grace him,
And pomp hang her wreaths on the conqueror's car!

When the shadows of time at his touch fall asunder,
And heroes and demi-gods leap into light;
When the accents of Brutus ring wild in the thunder,
And the white locks of Lear toss like sea-foam in night;

When the grief of the Moor, like a tempest that dashes
On crags in mid-ocean, has died into rest;
When the heart of Virginius breaks, o'er the ashes
Of her who was sweetest, and purest, and best;

How proudly, how gladly their praise will caress him!
How brightly the jewels will blaze in his crown!
How the white hands of honor will greet him and bless him
With lilies and roses of perfect renown!

Ah, grand is the flight of the eagle of morning,
While the dark world beneath him drifts into the deep;
But cold as the snow-wreaths the mountains adorning
Is the light that illumines his desolate sweep.

When the trumpets are blown and the standards are streaming,
And the festal lamps beam on the royal array,
How oft will the heart of the monarch be dreaming
Of the home and the friends that are far, far away!

There's a pulse in his breast that would always regret us,
It dances in laughter, it trembles in tears;
With the world at his feet, he would never forget us,
And our hearts would be true, through an æon of years!

The cymbals may clash and the gay pennons glisten,
And the clangor of gladness ring jocund and free,
But, calm in the tumult, his spirit will listen
For our whisper of love, floating over the sea:

For the music of tones that were once so endearing,—
Like a wind of the west o'er a prairie of flowers,—
But that never again will resound in his hearing,
Except through the tremulous sadness of ours.

Ah, manly and tender, thy deeds are thy praises!
Speed on in thy grandeur, all peerless and lone,
And greet, in old England, her hawthorns and daisies,—
A spirit as gentle and bright as their own!

Speed on, wheresoever fame's angel may guide thee!
No fancy can dream and no language can tell
What faith and what blessings walk ever beside thee,
Or the depth of our love, as we bid thee Farewell.