Classic Poem

And Easter once shall dawn — from Olivet gazing,
The Lord beholds a vale of bloom and glee;
Bliss crowning bliss, all sparkling, ringing, blazing,
Far as his eye — eye of a God — can see.

An Easter, such as Poet's faith sees blooming,
To whom is given to see, to pluck, e'en now,
The blossom-wreath, hope's morning-air perfuming,
Which days unborn shall wear upon their brow.

An Easter, such as Poet's eye sees dawning,
Which, o'er the mist that veils to-day, can see
Loom up the ruddy glacier-peaks of morning,
The summits of millennia yet to be.

An Easter, feast of Resurrection, sowing
Spring flowers again on many a burial sod;
An Easter of rejuvenescence, flowing
Down human bosoms, like the breath of God.

What blooming change on Zion's flowery places!
The conqueror, Spring, hath long been camping here;
The palm's green banner every mountain graces,
His blossoming tent-poles in the vale appear.

O'er all the old ruins, now, have long been streaming
Green, golden seas of grain in billowy sweeps,
As in the North, where silvery waves are gleaming,
Far down the watery depths Vineta sleeps.

O'er all the old rubbish, fresh and sparkling meadows
In mercy flung long since an emerald dress,
As, o'er a dark old sorrow, sink the shadows
From thy still, friendly hand, Forgetfulness!

Long have the hills had vine-festoons around them;
Long has a rose-hedge bloomed on Golgotha;
The praises of the Rose, who now would sound them,
Names in one breath Shiraz and Golgotha!

Long has the land been one wide sunny bower!
No crescent gleams, no cross the landscape round!
Why now should Battle's bloody banners lower?
Long, here, has Peace, eternal Peace been crowned!

Kedron remains. Before my sight it flashes,
Through crowded yellow grain-fields winding by,
A tear-drop still — through blond and golden lashes
Forced out by joy from Nature's blissful eye!

All round, what blooming, incense-breathing, humming!
How all the rival powers bud, burst and leap!
As if, this hour, must all to life be coming,
That lay a thousand years in wintry sleep!

What glittering everywhere, what sparkling, gleaming!
Cities in vales, and houses perched on high!
Of all the wreck they're built on, never dreaming, —
Not one faint dream what graves below them lie!

And, roaming through the land, of joy its criers,
A race, by fortune kissed, of virtue rare,
Earnest and cheerful, like the starry fires,
Strong as the cedars, as the roses fair.

Long since, Oblivion's wave above them sweeping,
Like Ocean's monsters hid far down the flood,
Old horrors, gilded villanies, lay sleeping,
War's, tyranny's and slavery's lying brood!

On Golgotha a little garden's mazes
Embower a cot, where dwells a loving pair;
Like theirs, its eye o'er all the landscape gazes;
Thus all things yearn each other's bliss to share.

Once, in the fields, the astonished children, screaming,
Dug out a shapeless iron thing to light,
Too straight and heavy for a sickle seeming,
And for a ploughshare somewhat slim and slight.

The treasure-trove, they dragged it home with labor;
The parents see it — but they know it not;
For miles around they summon every neighbor;
The neighbors look at it — they know it not.

Lo, an old man, from age's vale uprearing
The snowy mountain of his crown, is brought,
Out from the past like old Tradition peering, —
To him they show it, — but he knows it not!

Well for them all that it is past their learning!
The old world's shame, the grave's corroded hoard,
Had else, as tear-drop, in their eyes been burning,
For what they ne'er had heard of — was a sword!

Thro' clods henceforth 'twill go, a ploughshare ringing,
Pointing to dusty death the seed-corn there;
The sword's new deeds shall larks on high be singing,
Chanting their epopees in sunny air! —

And once it chanced, his plough the farmer steering,
Struck on a rock-like mass, deep-hid in earth,
And, with his spade the soil from round it clearing,
A wondrous shape of stone to light drew forth.

He calls the neighbors round to see the mystery,
They look upon it, — yet they know it not!
Gray ancient, thou canst surely tell its history?
The old man looks on it — he knows it not.

They know it not, yet stands it, full of blessing,
Within each heart, undimmed by rust or moss,
Its fruitful seed all pathways bloom confessing;
For what they ne'er had heard of — was a cross!

They saw not the red field of battle streaming,
They see the crown alone on Victory's brow!
They saw not the black storm with lightnings gleaming,
They see its rainbow's radiance only now! —

The cross of stone, they in the garden place it,
An old, mysterious, venerable thing;
The rose and all the flowers conspire to grace it,
Twine round the stone, and climb and fondly cling.

So stands the Cross, enrobed with bloom and glory,
On Golgotha, weighed down with precious lore:
Such wealth of roses hides the relic hoary,
The cross could long ago be seen no more.