Classic Poem

Beneath a goblin yew-tree's shade,
When autumn night was furled,
I saw them gather who have made
The history of the world—

Those great obscure momentous souls
Whom fame does not record—
Whose impulse still our fate controls
With deathless deed or word.

There walked the postman from whose face
No shock the smile could oust,
Who lost, beyond our power to trace,
The sketch of Lessing's “Faust.”

There came the snivelling servant-maid
With injured peevish look
Who on the lagging fire-coals laid
Carlyle's long-labored book.

One plodded by whose father-love,
Surmounting all defeats,
Had made a first-class plumber of
A boy who was a Keats.

And ambling amiably along
The Man from Porlock strode,
Whose visit broke the wizard song
Of Kubla Khan's abode.

And many more, to me unknown,
Gathered beneath the trees—
Men who perhaps down wells have thrown
Plays of Euripides,

Or sold some budding Shakespeare drink,
Or shut in cells some Blake,
Or forced some Shelley to death's brink
For true religion's sake.

I heard them say: “We are oppressed,
Damned by a cruel wrong—
We who have always meant the best
And have meant nothing long—

“Most cruelly damned, to such degree
That sinners, faring well
In warmth and good society,
Eject us even from Hell.

“Hence are we forced to seek on earth
The form of mortal wight;
And entering at the gates of birth,
Resume our ancient might.”