Classic Poem

MYRACE IS ALMOSTRUN.

I

M Y race is almost run, my days are nearly done,
Yet my heart still is buoyant, my spirits are light, —
It is but as the blaze of a dying taper's rays,
Life's last vivid flash ere it fades into night!

II.

In my day-spring of youth, with a bosom full of truth,
And feelings unwarped or unwithered by wrong;
With every sail unfurled, o'er the waves of the world
My bark of existence sped gaily along.

III.

My pilot was Hope, and I fancied I could cope,
If guided by him, with that storm-troubled sea;
Till dashed on Passion's rock, and shattered by the shock,
I soon found how unskilful a helmsman was he.

IV.

But years have flitted past, and tried in many a blast
We both have grown wiser and steadier than of yore;
The rack hath o'er us rolled, and now cheerily we hold
For a haven from whence we shall wander no more.

V.

My days are well night done, my goal will soon be won,
And repose from the buffets of Fortune be mine,
Where Hate, however fierce, or Sorrow may not pierce
To bid my cold bosom a moment repine.

VI.

O Death! I can brook on thine awful front to look,
And can turn to thee now with a heart void of gloom,
To him whom Time can bring no balsam on its wing;
There sure must be healing and rest in the tomb.