Classic Poem

THE young babe sat on its mother's knee,
Shaking its coral and bells with glee,
When Hope drew near, with a seraph smile,
To press the lips that had breathed no guile,
Nor spoke the words of sorrow;
Its little sister brought a flower,
And Hope, still lingering nigh
With sunny tress and sparkling eye,
Whisper'd of one in a brighter bower
It might pluck for itself to-morrow.

The boy came in from the wintry snow,
And mused by the parlour-fire;
But ere the evening lamps did glow,
A stranger came, and, bending low,
Closely scann'd his ruddy brow.
“What is that in your hand?” she said;
“My New-Year's Gift, with its covers red.”
“Bring hither the book, my boy, and see,
The magic spell of Memory.
That page hath gold, and a way I'll find
To lock it safe in your docile mind;
For books have honey, the sages say,
That is sweet to the taste when the hair is gray.”

The youth at midnight sought his bed,
But, ere he closed his eyes,
Two forms drew near with gentle tread,
In meek and saintly guise.
One struck a lyre of wondrous power,
With thrilling music fraught,
That chain'd the flying summer hour,
And charm'd the listener's thought;
For still would its tender cadence be,
“Follow me! follow me!
And every morn a smile shall bring,
As sweet as the merry lay I sing.”—
She ceased, and with a serious air
The other made reply,
“Shall he not also be my care?
May not I his journey share?
Sister! sister! tell me why?
Need Memory e'er with Hope contend?
Doth not the virtuous soul still find in both a friend?”

The youth beheld the strife,
And eagerly replied,
“Come, both, and be my guide,
And gild the path of life;”
So he gave to each a brother's kiss,
And laid him down, and his dream was bliss.

The man came forth to run his race,
And ever when the morning light
Roused him from the trance of night,
When, singing from her nest,
The lark went up with dewy breast,
Hope by his pillow stood with angel grace;
And, as a mother cheers her son,
She girded his daily harness on.
But when the star of eve, from weary care,
Bade him to his home repair,
When by the hearth-stone where his joys were born
The cricket wound its tiny horn,
Sober Memory spread her board
With knowledge richly stored,
And supp'd with him, and like a guardian bless'd
His nightly rest.

The old man sat in his elbow-chair,
His locks were thin and gray,
Memory, that faithful friend, was there,
And he in querulous tone did say,
“Hast thou not lost, with careless key,
Something that I have intrusted to thee?”

Her pausing answer was sad and low,
“It may be so! It may be so!
The lock of my casket is worn and weak,
And Time with a plunderer's eye doth seek;
Something I miss, but I cannot say
What it is he hath stolen away,
For only tinsel and trifles spread
Over the alter'd path we tread;
But the gems thou didst give me when life was new,
Here they are, all told and true,
Diamonds and rubies of changeless hue.”
But while in grave debate,
Mournful, and ill at ease, they sate,
Finding treasures disarranged,
Blaming the fickle world, though they themselves were changed,
Hope on a buoyant wing did soar,
Which folded underneath her robe she wore,
And spread its rainbow plumes with new delight,
And jeoparded its strength, in a bold, heavenward flight.

The dying lay on his couch of pain,
And his soul went forth to the angel-train;
Yet when Heaven's gate its golden bars undrew
Memory walk'd that portal through,
And spread her tablet to the Judge's eye,
Heightening with clear response the welcome of the sky.

But Hope that glorious door
Pass'd not: it was noThers to dwell
Where pure desires to full fruition swell.
Her ministry was o'er:
To cheer earth's pilgrim toward the sky,
To cleanse the tear-drop from his eye,
Was hers,—then to immortal Joy
Resign her brief employ,
Break her sweet harp, and die.