Classic Poem

Ye, who follow to the measure
Where the trump of Fortune leads,
And at inns a-glow with pleasure
Rein your golden-harnessed steeds,
In your hours of lordly leisure
Have ye heard a voice of woe
On the starless wind of midnight
Come and go?

Pilgrim brothers, whose existence
Rides the higher roads of Time,
Hark, how from the troubled distance,
Voices made by woe sublime,
In their sorrow, claim assistance,
Though it come from friend or foe—
Shall they ask and find no answer?
Rise and go.

One there was, who in his sadness
Laid his staff and mantle down,
Where the demons laughed to madness
What the night-winds could not drown—
Never came a voice of gladness
Though the cups should foam and flow,
And the pilgrim thus proclaiming
Rose to go.

“All the night I hear the speaking
Of low voices round my bed,
And the dreary floor a-creaking
Under feet of stealthy tread:—
Like a very demon shrieking
Swings the black sign to and fro,
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“On the hearth the brands are lying
In a black, unseemly show;
Through the roof the winds are sighing,
And they will not cease to blow;
Through the house sad hearts replying
Send their answer deep and low—
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“Tell me not of fires relighted
And of chambers glowing warm,
Or of travellers benighted,
Overtaken by the storm.
Urge me not; your hand is blighted
As your heart is—even so!
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper—
For I go.

“Tell me not of goblets teeming
With the antidote of pain,
For its taste and pleasant seeming
Only hide the deadly bane;
Hear your sleepers tortured dreaming,
How they curse thee in their woe!
Come, arise, thou cheerless keeper,
For I go.

“I will leave your dreary tavern
Ere I drink its mandragore:
Like a black and hated cavern,
There are reptiles on the floor;
They have overrun your tavern,
They are at your wine below!
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
For I go.

“There's an hostler in your stable
Tends a steed no man may own,
And against your windy gable
How the night-birds scream and moan!
Even the bread upon your table
Is the ashy food of woe;
Come, arise, thou fearful keeper,
For I go.

“Here I will not seek for slumber,
And I will not taste your wine:
All your house the fiends encumber,
And they are no mates of mine;
Never more I join your number
Though the tempests rain or snow—
Here's my staff and here's my mantle,
And I go.”

Suffering brothers—doubly brothers—
(Pain hath made us more akin)
Trust not to the strength of others,
Trust the arm of strength within;
One good hour of courage smothers
All the ills an age can know;
Take your staff and take your mantle,