Classic Poem

Oh sweet it is to listen on the shore
—When the wild tempest mocks the seaboy's cry;
And sweet to mark the tumult and the roar
—When distant battle stalks in thunder by:
—And do not say another's agony
Is happiness to us!—oh, rather deem
—That the mind loves, in its own phantasy,
To wield the weapons and to scream the scream,
And then to wake from death, and feel it was a dream.

But nought is sweeter than to hold our state,
—Unchangeable, on Wisdom's guarded keep,
And look in silence on the low and great,
—Who, in their sackcloth or their purple, creep
—Beneath the summit of the viewless steep:
They dare the deserts, and they tempt the waves,
—And serve, and monarchize, and laugh and weep,
While Fortune scoffs alike at lords and slaves,
And decks the perilous path with sceptres, and with graves.

Oh wretched souls! oh weak and wasted breath,
—Painful in birth, and loathsome in decay!
Eternal clouds are round us: doubt and death
—Lie dark between to-morrow and to-day;
—And thus our span of mourning flits away!
If the veins glisten, and the pulses glow,
—If the free spirits innocently play,
Say, wilt thou seek for more? vain mortal, no!
What more can Dust demand, or Destiny bestow?

Yet Nature hath more blessings, her own joys,
—Unearned by labour, and unsought by prayer:
Be wise to-day!—perhaps no golden boys
—O'er the thronged banquet fling the torches' glare,
—No rich aroma loads the languid air,
No burnished silver gleams along the hall
—In dazzling whiteness, no fond lute is there
To wreathe the sweetness of its magic thrall
O'er listening ears, rapt hearts, at some high festival;—

Yet Nature's fondest sons and fairest daughters
—On her green bosom love at eve to lie,
Where the lone rippling of the quiet waters
—Goes syllabling all sweets, and hoar and high
—The old oak lends his solemn canopy.
What do they reck beneath their tranquil bowers
—Of guilt or grief?—then happiest, when the sky
Laughs in the glad spring-dawning, and the hours
Dress every hill and vale in herbs and odorous flowers!