Classic Poem

TO AN ARTIST .

When the day is dead, dear lady,
And the glooms of twilight fall,
Oft my soul goes out to meet thee,
In that ancient college hall.

Goes out, on Fancy's pinions,
Through the boundless world of thought,
To review the fair creations
That thy cunning hand has wrought.

And enrapt as in a vision
That my very heart pulse thrills,
I behold the patriarch " taking
His last look over the hills. "

Over Canaan's fruitful valleys,
Silver sands and sparkling streams,
And cities girt with palm trees,
Fair as Eden in our dreams.

Over all the land God promised,
Many a hundred years before,
To Abram's seed outnumbering
The sands on the ocean's shore.

O man, whom God appointed
To break the Egyptian thrall,
And redeem His chosen people,
Hast thou found the end of all?

Age has not impaired the vigor
Of thy mighty heart and hand,
But thy feet may never enter
To possess the Promised Land.

Nay, thy pilgrimage is ended;
Now another fills thy place;
And thy soul is bowed with sadness,
By the shadow on thy face.

And standing amidst the mountains,
Unattended and forlorn,
Thou art like a stricken monarch
Of his crown and kingdom shorn.

Alone! Thou art not forsaken,
For thy God is still thy friend,
And thy life is but beginning
Where to us it seems to end.

And, ere Israel takes possession
Of Jehovah's rich bequest,
Thou shalt know the full fruition
Of eternal love and rest.