Classic Poem

'Tis the Beloved from the glory calls!
I would not, even though I might, delay.
Like a home-greeting the glad summons falls,
And I, unloitering now, must haste away.

'Tis the Beloved from the mountain calls!
The hill of incense, where the gentle day
Rises in balm, and night no more enthrals
The captive earth, in its bewildering sway.

'Tis the Beloved from the city calls!
Oh joy at last to hear the song of day!
It steals all sweetly down from these bright walls,
And bids these cloudy thoughts and dreams give way.

'Tis the Beloved from the palace calls!
He bids me quit these cells of crumbling clay;
Doff the sad sable of these earthly palls,
And join the joy of the immortal lay.

'Tis the Beloved from the feast-board calls!
The Bridegroom bids his Bride no longer stay;
Upward he beckons to the royal halls,
To bask in royal love and light for aye.

'Tis the Beloved from his vineyard calls!
Winter is past, now breathes the fragrant May;
The desert-fasts are o'er, and festivals
Begin; my love, arise and come away.

'Tis the Beloved from the temple calls!
And I, his priest, with willing feet, obey.
With stole, and crown, and censer, he instals
His risen priesthood in their new array.

Oh call, Beloved! — Heavenly Bridegroom call!
Am I not listening for the long-loved voice?
Oh keep not silence! Call, Beloved, call,
And bid this longing heart at length rejoice!