Classic Poem

  Man. The melancholy prophet—there he sits;
Dark-eyed, deep-browed, deep-thoughted; tranquil, too,
As though his terrible oracles did not sound
Damnation to the land, and overturn.
I hear his voice:
Like Darkness murmuring forth her eastern song,—
Ruin to wealth, and punishment to pride,
Its awful burthen. Twenty years ago,
I knew this man. I did not think he held
So large a mind, nor such grave earnest soul.
(I do repent in ashes). He was then

Simply a scholar; and (as I fancy) felt
The place he trod on was too low for him;
Or else, he scorned the sordid crowds he met;
Or had ambition; or desired to breathe
His Soul upon the world, and brighten it.
Whate'er he was; he is a man to lead
The true and nobler Spirits in his train;
Amongst the rest—myself; a humble man
Who, as yet, have but the wish to serve for truth.