Classic Poem

  Duke . Great tidings have come hither,—from the grave.
The Duke is dead:—nay, something more than that:
My Father's dead! —Well,—he was very old.
The seasons were familiar with his pains:
From vernal youth to wintry age, he saw
The melancholy months pour out their ills;
And now,—the year's at end! These things are writ
Down on unalterable brass. No tears!
What use in grieving? Will my cries charm back
The pale down-going Ghost which was my Sire,
And seat it upright in his crimson chair?—
He has left us. Gray old man! He was a bar
'Tween me and power: yet, I beheld him not
With an heir's loathing. Master of mine own,
Within my stormy circle still I reigned,
And left him to a throne.
…Soh,—now for life;
(Death being forgot awhile). We must assume
The sceptre of our sires, and take on us
The golden burthen of a ducal crown.
In place of petty thoughts and weak desires,
We 'll seek Ambition in her high retreat,
And take her for our mate. 'Tis well that men,
Who march on humble ground, should match with dust:
But We,—whose homes are on the mountain tops,
Whose thoughts beyond,—must breathe fit air, and hold
Nothing beneath the stars in fellowship.