Classic Poem

I REVERENCE these old masters—men who sung
Or painted, not for love of praise or fame;
Who heeded not the popular eye or tongue,
And craved no present honors for their name;
Who toil'd because they sorrow'd! In their hearts
The secret of their inspiration lay;—
When these were by the oppressor's minions wrung,
The terrible pang to utterance forced its way.
And hence it is, their passionate song imparts,
To him who listens, a like sensible woe,
That moves him much to turn aside and pray
As if his personal grief had present claim;—
Thus Danté found his muse,—the pride and shame
Of Florence;—Milton thus, and Michael Angelo!