Classic Poem

The dark'ning shadows eastward slope,
And Evening, with her dewy urn,
Quenches the beacon orb of Hope,
To let the stars of Patience burn.

The paths grow dim, the low winds sigh,
The fluttering bird-notes faint and fail,
And slowly up the sombre sky
The sad moon wanders, cold and pale.

Yet on, for many a weary mile,
Our pilgrim marches still must wend,
Through brier and flood, by lane and stile,
Before we reach our journey's end.

What word will cheer the jaded nerve?
What thought inspire, as on we fare,
The baffled mind, so prone to swerve
Beneath the leaden wings of care?

Ah, Nature, when she made her toy,—
This wayward child of fire and clay,
The sport of every fickle joy
That ripples through his fleeting day,—

Gave him a fancy swift to breed
Delusive dreams for every hour,—
Sirens that beckon and recede,
And phantom moods of bliss and power.

Some from the stars and flowers distil
The faith that these not vainly shine,—
That whispering wood, and rock-crowned hill,
And murmuring stream are all divine.

Some for a vanished love bewail,—
Her eyes, the starry orbs of fate,
And voice, more rich than summer gale,
That make the heaven in which they wait.

Some, self-enamored, seem so dear,
So sacred in their own kind eyes,
They cannot doubt what blossoms here
Must bloom again in Paradise.

Some from the written lore of sage
Evolve and shape the eternal plan;
Some boldly vaunt the inspired page,
And claim immortal life for man.

So onward down the dark ravine,—
Dim phantoms in a phantom night,—
We wander toward a realm unseen,
Where nothing dwells but love and light.

Vain dreams! of mortal frailty wrought,
And nameless dread of nameless ill!
Man's sceptre is the regnant thought
And towering calm of human will!

One lesson comes to all that live,
One final truth their lives declare,—
That earth has nought but toil to give,
And nought to teach but how to bear:

The chastened calm of dumb assent,
Though hope should wither or should bloom,
Blind to all purpose or event,
And silent, 'neath the eyes of doom.

This, only this, remains of all
The morning pomp of young belief,—
That man, else Nature's abject thrall,
In royal will is Nature's chief.

Thought falters, faith is dazed with fear,
Earth keeps her secret, death is dumb:
This simply bears its burden here,
And dauntless fronts whate'er may come.

As some tall ship that braves the storm—
Straight out to sea her prow is bent,
Where broken, on her stalwart form,
The furies of the surge are spent:

Or, torn by rock and whelmed by wave,
Exultant when her doom is met,
She rears above her ocean grave,
And sinks with every standard set.