Classic Poem

From many a costly lamp the red light shone
Upon the massive vaults of cold, gray stone,
Chasing the shadows from the prison hall,
Where doomed ones met, at life's last festival.
Menials, with pallid faces, dressed the board
In gorgeous splendor; sparking wine was poured
From jewelled goblets; viands rich and rare,
Prepared by skillful hands, with dainty care,
Sent up delicious odors; radiant flowers,
Gathered by gentle hands, in summer bowers,
Exhaled from crystal vases rich perfume,
Like Spring's sweet breath throughout that living tomb.
The young, the gifted and the brave were there;
The loving and the loved, nerved to endure and dare
The morrow's fearful doom. No quailing eye
Revealed the struggling spirit's agony!
No pallid cheek, no darkly knitted brow
Betrayed what stoic lips would disavow
In those last trial hours. Did they forget
The sweet homes, far away, where once they met
The gentle and the beautiful? Apart,
In the still chambers of the inner heart,
Was there no shrinking from death's gloomy dower?
Had human love no talisman, no power,
To stir the fount of feeling, till bright tears
Flowed to the starry dreams of other years?
Were the sweet names of mother, sister, wife,
Erased from out the tablet-leaves of life?
Or, did the pure, effulgent star of faith
Light up the valley and the shades of death;
Revealing, far beyond, the blessed shore,
Where weary ones find rest forever more?
Alas! they had no hope of future bliss;
No vision of a brighter world than this;
No trust in Him, whose arm is strong to save;
No dream of Heaven; no light beyond the grave.
Cold, false philosophy, had schooled and crushed
Their noblest aspirations. It had hushed
The still, small voice of conscience; graven deep
Upon the spirit's shrine, " Death is eternal sleep. "
Yet, as the last few hours of life went by,
From that strange scene of mimic revelry,
Thought vaguely trembled out upon the broad,
Wild chaos of conjecture, seeking God;
Or, striving on weak pinion to explore,
By reason's light, some dim and shadowy shore
Beyond the grave. O, none may ever know
The height, the depth of that unuttered woe,
That made the heart all desolate the while
Stern stoicism taught the lips to smile.
Swift o'er the revel passed the night away,
And feeble glimmerings of their final day
Stole through the reeking prison; even then,
The iron hearts of those misguided men
Bowed not before their Maker; pealing high
A hymn to Freedom, they went out to die!
Beside the murderous guillotine they gave
Their last farewell to friends, sky, earth and wave,
And passed, together, to one common grave.