Classic Poem

Far in a deep secluded dell,
Where very few intrude,
Where bubbled still the " Holy Well. "
A ruin'd temple stood;
Used by the shepherds as a fold
When winter seals the sod,
Yet countless generations old
Went there to worship God.

How wearily the wind did moan,
'Mid ruin and decay,
Where still a sacrificial stone
Among the rank grass lay.
The holy fire had all burnt out —
The vital spirit gone —
And all was darkness, dread, and doubt,
Around that altar-stone.

I sat me down in that lone place
To muse upon decay,
The changed conditions of our race.
And faith that's growing grey;
Weird faces seem'd to flit around
That ancient altar-stone;
There might be nought, yet still methought
I was not all alone.

And in my contemplations deep
Hours must have pass'd away —
Perchance there fell on me that sleep
Of which the poets say:
" We drink from out a magic cup,
From fountains never dry,
Which lock the outer senses up,
And ope the inner eye.

" Tho' memory may not retain
A shred of what we see,
What was is written on the brain,
What is, and what shall be. "
And in my reverie or dream
For light, more light, I cried:
" O truth, with thy celestial beam
Let me be satisfied. "

The beacon-lights, our guides of yore,
Have one by one gone out,
And left us, 'mid the tempest's roar,
In darkness and in doubt
Tho' stubbornly men close their eyes,
Yet still 'tis plain to me
The anchors old have lost their hold —
We're drifting out to sea.

No wonder with foreboding fears
We hear the tempests roar;
The pole-star of a thousand years
Can be our guide no more.
What millions of the good and brave
For light, more light, have cried;
Yet went down to the yawning grave
With souls unsatisfied.

I'd pray'd for light both day and night,
But I'd had no reply;
Then did I hear close by mine ear
A whisper'd " Look on high. "
And instantly a holy light
Through all the ruin shone,
But so bewild'ring to my sight
I scarce could look thereon.

The tide of time seem'd backward roll'd,
Once more 'twas holy ground,
And all the generations old
Were gathering around.
At length with trembling joy and awe,
Upon the altar-stone,
A heav'nly being there I saw,
Majestic and alone.

And from a lyre in his right hand
Leapt forth a thrilling strain,
While still anon the spectral band
Join'd in the deep refrain.
Oh, could I, could I but rehearse
The song as it was sung,
The song of Truth — immortal Youth,
Forever fair and young —

A song that in my heart doth live
With its majestic roll,
To you, alas! I can but give
Its sense, but not its soul.
But tho' that song I cannot sing,
Yet, like a mighty river,
Its tones shall roll, and heave my soul,
Forever and forever.