Classic Poem

Gray monarch of the waste of years,
Mine eyes have told thy steps in tears,
Yet yield I not to feeble fears,
In watching now thy flight:
The pangs that follow'd still thy blow
Have lost their edge with frequent woe,
And stronger must the courage grow
That's fed by constant fight.
The neck long used to weighty yoke,
The tree once shiver'd by the stroke,
The heart by frequent torture broke —
These fear no later blight.

Oh! mine hath been a mournful song, —
My neck hath felt the burden long, —
My tree was shiver'd. — weak and strong,
Beneath the bolt went down! —
The Fate that thus took early sway,
Hath spared of mine but little prey,
For old and young were torn away,
Ere manhood's wing had flown; —
I saw the noble sire, who stood
Majestic, as in crowded wood,
The pine — and after him, the brood,
All perish in thy frown.

So, count my hopes — so, tell my fears.
And ask what now this life endears,
To him who gave, with many tears,
Each blossom of his love;
Whose store in heaven, so precious grown,
He counts each earthly moment flown;
As loss of something from his own,
In treasures shrined above.
Denied to seek — to see — his store,
Yet daily adding more and more,
Some precious plant, that, left before,
The spoiler rends at last.
Not hard the task to number now
The few that live to feel the blow;
The perish'd, — count them on my brow,
With white hairs overcast.

White hairs — while yet each limb is strong
To help the right and crush the wrong —
Ere youth, in manhood's struggling throng,
Had well begun his way: —
Thought premature, that still denied
The boy's exulting sports — the pride,
That, with the blood's unconscious tide,
Knows but to shout and play:
Youth, that in love's first gush was taught
To see his best affection brought
To tears, and woe, and death, —
While yet the fire was in his eye,
That told of passion's victory,
And, in his ear, the first sweet sigh,
From beauty's laboring breath.

And manhood now, — and loneliness, —
With, oh! how few to love and bless,
Save those who, in their dear duresse,
Look down from heaven's high towers;
The stately sire, the gentle dame,
The maid who first awoke the flame,
That gave to both a mutual claim,
Soon forfeited, as ours —
And all those dearest buds of bloom,
That simply sought on earth a tomb,
From birth to death, with rapid doom,
A bird-flight wing'd for fate:
How thick the shafts! — how sure the aim! —
What other passion wouldst thou tame,
Oh! Time, within this heart of flame,
Elastic, not elate?

Is't pride? — methinks 'tis joy to bend; —
My foe — he can no more offend; —
My friend is false; — I love my friend; —
I love my foeman too! —
'Tis man I love; — nor him alone,
The brute, the bird, — its joy or moan,
Not heedless, to my heart hath gone —
I feel with all I view.
Wouldst have me worthy? — make me so,
By frequent bruise and overthrow; —
But spare on other hearts the blow,
Spare, from the cruel pang, the woe,
My innocent — my bright!
On me thy vengeance! 'Tis my crime
That needs the scourge, and, in my prime,
'Twere fruitful of improving time,
Thy hands should not be light.

I bend me willing to the thrall,
Whate'er the doom will bear it all, —
Drink of the bitter cup of gall,
Nor once complain of thee;
Will poverty avail to chide,
Or sickness bend the soul of pride,
Or social scorn, still evil-eyed? —
Have, then, thy will of me!
But spare the woman and the child! —
Let me not see their features mild
Distorted, — hear their accents wild,
In agonizing pain —
Too much of this! — I thought me sure,
In frequent pang and loss before; —
I still have something to endure, —
And tremble, and — refrain!

On every shore they watch thy wing, —
To some the winter, some the spring,
Thou bring'st, or yet art doom'd to bring,
In rapid-rolling years:
How many seek thee, smiling now,
Who soon shall look with clouded brow,
Heart fill'd with bitter doubt and woe,
And eyes with gathering tears! —
But late, they fancied, — life's parade
Still moving on, — that, not a shade
Thou flung'st on bower and sunny glade,
In which they took delight: —
Sharp satirist — methinks I see
Thy glance in sternest mockery; —
They little think, not seeing thee,
How fatal is thy flight; —
What feathers grow beneath thy wing,
What darts — how poison'd — from what spring
Of sorrow, and how keen the sting, —
How cureless still the blight.

Enough! — the cry has had its way,
As thou hast had! — 'tis not the lay
Of vain complaint, — no idle play
Of fancy-dreaming care:
A mocking bitter like thine own,
Wells up from fountains, deep and lone,
Where sorrow, by sepulchral stone,
Sits watching thy career.
Thou'st mock'd my hope and dash'd my joy,
With keen rebuke and sad alloy —
The father, son — the man, the boy,
All, all! have felt the rod: —
Perchance, not all thy work in vain,
In softening soul, subduing brain,
If, suffering, I submit to pain, —
That minister of God.