Classic Poem

The moon with sickly rays
Upon the deathly-silent thicket plays,
The moaning spectre rustles through the air:
Through mist and cloud and rain
The pallid stars in vain
Twinkle, like lanterns in a sepulchre.
Like ghosts, in silence, lank and lean,
A motley crowd in drear array,
Advancing with funereal mien,
On to the grave-ground wends its way.

Who is this tottering by
On crutches bowed, with haggard eye?
By iron fortune double bent,
His soul outpoured in long lament,
He staggers toward the slow-borne bier.
“Father”—Was that the faltered name?
Chill tremors all his body tear,
Convulse his anguish-stricken frame,
And even stir his silver hair.

His burning wound reopened gapes,
His soul is torn by pangs of hell:
“Father” his youthful lips escapes,
“Son” from the father's whisper fell.

Here in his icy shroud he lies,
And thy fair dream, once bright as gold,
Is now a curse: before thine eyes
Lo! Father, wrapped in icy fold
Thy rapture and thy Paradise.

Gentle, he springs from the arms of Aurora,
Floating in lightest Elysian airs;
'Mid rose-scented zephyrs the heaven-born Flora
Her son o'er the flowery tapestry bears.
Over the fairy-like meadows he flitted,
Mirrored again in the silvery stream;
Pursued and o'ertaken, the maidens submitted
To kisses which filled their voluptuous dream.

Forcing his way through the pressure of mortals,
Treading the hills with the foot of a roe,
He lifted his hopes to the heavenly portals,
In regions which only the eagle may know.
Proud as the horses, which prancingly sidle,
Tossing in anger the curves of their mane,
Regally spurning the chafe of the bridle,
Stood he, in presence of prince or of swain.

The Spring of his life fluttered by like a vision,
And Hesperus guarded him ever in sight;
With the aid of the grape he held pain in derision,
And sorrows he danced into whirling delight.
Whole worlds in his glorious youth are reposing;
Ah! Father, with pride his development scan!
Rejoice in the opening future, disclosing
The slumbering germ, which shall ripen to man!

But, Father, No!—Hark to the tolling bell,
Hark where the brazen hinges creak—
How grim that dread sepulchral spell!—
Yea, let the tears course down thy cheek!
Go, gentle spirit, sunward still,
Be joyous till thy travels cease,
The long-sought cup of rapture fill,
And freely taste Valhalla's peace.

To meet again—ah! blessed hope—
To meet again at Eden's gate!
Listen, there creaks the lowering rope,
You hear the swaying coffin grate!
Helpless we reel, in dumb despair—
Mute, speaking only with the eye.—
Stay! from these impious thoughts forbear!
Rather let tears our need supply.

The moon with sickly rays
Upon the deathly-silent thicket plays,
The moaning spectre rustles through the air:
Through mist and cloud and rain
The pallid stars in vain
Twinkle, like lanterns in a sepulchre.
With hollow thud resounds the clay—
Ah! one last look on earth's fair bloom!—
The bolts of death are drawn for aye.
Upon the coffin piles the shovelled clay.
No restitution from the tomb!