Classic Poem

Another weary day was past, —
Another night had come at last,
Its welcome calm diffusing;
Without a light, without a book,
I sat beside my chimney nook,
In painful silence musing.

The cricket chirped within the gloom,
The kitten gambolled round the room
In wild and wanton gladness;
While I, a thing of nobler birth,
A reasoning denizen of earth,
Gave up my soul to sadness.

My children were resigned to sleep,
My wife had turned aside to weep
In unavailing sorrow;
She mourned for one lost, lost for aye, —
Pined o'er the troubles of to-day,
And feared the coming morrow.

I turned the glance of memory back,
Along the rude and chequered track
Which manhood set before me;
Then forward as I cast my eye,
Seeing no gleam of comfort nigh,
Despairing dreams came o'er me: —

I thought of all my labours vain —
The watchful nights, the days of pain,
Which I had more than tasted;
Of all my false and foolish pride,
My humble talents misapplied,
And hours of leisure wasted: —

I thought how I had wandered far,
Allured by some malignant star,
In other lands a stranger!
How often I had gone unfed,
Without a home, without a bed,
And lain me down in danger.

Thus, after twenty years of life
Made up of wretchedness and strife,
Tired hope, and vain endeavour,
I smote my brow in bitter mood,
My mind a peopled solitude,
Remote from peace as ever.

" Hence! " I exclaimed, " ye dazzling dreams!
Nor tempt me with your idle themes,
Soft song, and tuneful story:
I'll break my harp, I'll burn my lays,
I'll sigh no more for empty praise,
And unsubstantial glory.

" Tis true, I've sat on Fancy's throne,
King of a region called my own,
In fairy worlds ideal;
But ah! the charms that Fancy wrought,
Were apt to make me set at nought
The tangible and real.

" I've loved, " not wisely, but too well,"
The mixed and soul-dissolving spell
Of poetry and passion:
I've suffered strangely for their sake, —
Henceforth I'll follow in the wake
Of feelings more in fashion.

" Farewell to Shakespeare's matchless name,
Farewell to Milton's hallowed fame,
And Goldsmith's milder measures;
Farewell to Byron's thrilling powers,
Farewell to Moore's resplendent flowers,
And Campbell's polished " Pleasures."

" Farewell, sweet Poet of the Plough,
Who wandered with a thoughtful brow,
By Coila's hills and fountains;
Farewell to thee, too, Shepherd Bard,
Whose strain was wild, whose lot was hard,
On Ettrick's barren mountains.

" Farewell, young Keats, whose luscious lore
With beauty's sweet excess runs o'er,
And all that genius giveth;
Farewell to Shelley, with a sigh,
Whose strengthening fame can never die
While Truth or Freedom liveth.

" Farewell to all the needy throng,
Who waste their energies in song,
And bright illusions cherish:
Here I renounce the Muse divine,
Why should I worship at her shrine,
To please the world — and perish? "