Classic Poem

Pale Cynthia! lovely goddess of the night,
That o'er reposing nature sheds her light; —
And you, ye stars! that shine from pole to pole,
And round this dark terrestrial planet roll;

Fain would I to your distant regions soar,
And traverse worlds unseen, unknown before; —
My restless spirit would presume to scale
Those airy heights, and lift the future's veil.

Vain wish! aside that veil thou may'st not draw,
The present must be — ought to be, thy law;
Study what God reveals, and ask no more,
And where thou can'st not comprehend, adore.

He to those countless orbs has lustre given,
His hand directs them through the pathless heaven;
He, at a glance, the universe surveys; —
Deep and incomprehensible his ways.

But hark! another hour has passed away.
O time! thy rapid current who can stay?
And yet how unimproved thy moments fly;
Mortals forget that they are born to die.

Death comes when least expected — who can tell
For whom may next be tolled the funeral knell?
The greyhaired sire, the blooming and the brave,
The prince, the peasant, share one common grave.

We fondly gaze on those we love to-day,
The morrow dawns — and where, oh, where are they?
Lifeless and cold their cherished forms are laid
In solemn silence 'neath the grave's dark shade.

Religion! sacred treasure! but for thee
The world a solitary wild would be,
In darkest hour, thou, comforter, art nigh,
To wipe the gushing tear from sorrow's eye.

Who might not give a thousand worlds to know
The calm serenity thou dost bestow?
The richest gift to mortals ever given,
On earth our solace and foretaste of heaven.

But hush! what sounds are stealing on my ear?
'Tis but the sighing of the wind I hear —
And there is music in these plaintive notes —
How soft, yet mournful o'er my soul it floats.

How sweet at such an hour the parting sigh,
To heave upon a mother's breast and die;
When the triumphant soul shall wing its flight,
To hail in heaven a morn of holier light.

'Twere sad to languish in a distant land,
Our pillow smoothed but by a stranger's hand;
To pass the restless hours of night alone,
Without one heart congenial with our own.

No mother near in soothing tones to speak —
To bathe the aching head, the burning cheek;
Whence comes that shadowy form with noiseless tread?
From the dark mansions of the lonely dead? —

Why trembles thus my agitated frame?
'Tis but the phantom of a fevered brain; —
And see, it smiles benignant on me now,
A heavenly mildness sits upon that brow.

Speak, I conjure! inhabitant of bliss!
Say what has called thee to a world like this;
Dost bring some message from yon starry sphere?
Then deign thine accents to a mortal ear.

Frail child of earth, awake! delay no more!
Know thou the morn of life will soon be o'er;
Trust not the world, nor seek its smiles to gain,
False are its friendships, and its pleasures vain.

Farewell! I'll still thy faithful guardian be,
While floats thy bark o'er life's tempestuous sea;
And when its heavings and its storms shall cease,
Be thine the haven of eternal peace.

The vision speaks — then fading from my sight,
To heaven's celestial courts it wings its flight;
Night's dusky shadows quickly melt away,
And smiling nature hails the opening day.