Classic Poem

A star forlorn has risen from thick darkness—
Illumine, star of mine, my mourning road!

'Tis not the straits of Sheol that torment me,
But life that wearies me—my days a load.

Loyal to the poor-house, at tramping an old hand,
Schooled to the yoke, to walk in need of bread;

My father—bitter exile, my mother—want,
'Tis not my staff or the shameful scrip I dread!

More cruel than these, more bitter sevenfold
Is life without hope or brightness for the eyes;

To sink as lead, drop deep within dark places,
A life sans hope, but of rot that putrefies;

The life of a hungry dog, bound by its rope—
How art thou cursed, thou life without a hope!

Illumine, star, my soul that has despaired
Through pagan worship and 'neath exile's weight,

Throw far thy beams, illumine the thick darkness—
I'm here to go, or I am here to wait. . . .

Who knows how long again my night will be
What tramp and darkness God stores up for me—

And when I peer out from the dark I see
Thy staff of light—turn thou and comfort me.

To water my last flower of hope a clear
And crystal drop I guard—It is a tear.

Within my heart still glows an olden fire
Let it burst into flame ere it expire.

Ah! what is left of me throbs, with new life,
To fall in action, and to end in strife!