Classic Poem

PUT out the light
And look into the night,
Raise the curtain high and higher,
Quench the glare of the blinding fire,
So may we look to our heart's desire
Into the night!
Into the face of the black, black night.
What a sight!
Earth seems maddened with affright!
Hear the wild wind shrieking, roaring,
Mercy from the storm imploring,
The merciless storm that never hears
The wild wind pleading in his ears,
Praying for a little space,
A little slackening in the race.
But the pitiless sleet keeps flying on
Here and there and everywhere,
Challenging the weary air
To another race now this is won.
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark
To the wild wind's praying;
Listen through the dreary dark
To what his pleading lips are saying:

" Oh, the poor,
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold, —
How desolate they are to-night and cold!
— I have been
To the cottage in the glen,
I whirled around the crazy shed
Where the children were all a-bed,
And I could hear them moan and weep,
For they could not sleep.
" We cannot sleep," said they.
" Father is out on the stormy bay,
And the night is dark and the sea is deep;
Would God that it were day!"
What more the little children said
I cannot say,
For I stopped my ears and whirled away
To pray in thine instead
For a little space,
A little slackening in the race,
That so the weeping children may
Behold again their father's face,
Returning with the morning's ray
Back from the stormy bay. "
But the merciless sleet keeps flying on
Here and there and everywhere,
Challenging the weary air
To another race now this is won.
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark
To the wild wind's praying;
Listen through the dreary dark
To what his pleading lips are saying:
Oh, the poor,
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold, —
How desolate they are to-night and cold!
— I met a traveller on the hill, —
An old man, faint and very chill —
Hoary with age and hoarier still
With the white, blinding snow
That over his hoary locks did blow.
Pity the traveller old and gray!
Maybe he has pushed all day
Through the driving storm and sleet;
Maybe he has lost his way,
And his shivering feet,
How they must long and ache to greet
The glowing fireside's genial heat!
Pity the traveller old and gray,
Pity the faint old man, I pray. "

But the merciless sleet keeps flying on
Here and there and everywhere,
Challenging the weary air
To another race now this is won.
Merciless storm, we pray thee, hark
To the wild wind's praying;
Listen through the dreary dark
To what his pleading lips are saying:

" Oh, the poor,
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold, —
How desolate they are to-night and cold!
— I peeped into the broken panes,
Where the snow and sleet and rains
Of many a weary year have stolen
Till the sashes are smeared and soaked and swollen;
Little children with tangled hair,
And lips awry and feet half bare,
Huddled around the smouldering fire,
Like beasts half crouching in their lair;
While each the while by stealth drew nigher
Covetous of the others' share.
Oh, 't was a pitiful sight to see!
And mothers too were there
With infants shivering on their knee,
Or closer held with a mother's care,
Or laid to rest with a hurried prayer,
A moan, half hope and half despair,
A muttered " Pitiless storm, forbear." "

But the merciless sleet keeps flying on
Here and there and everywhere,
Challenging the weary air
To another race now this is won.
Yet over all, through sleet and rain,
I seem to hear this low refrain,
This sobbing, desolate, direful strain:

" Oh, the poor,
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold, —
How desolate they are to-night and cold! "
And I sit and muse at my window still,
And strain my eyes to the distant hill
In search of the traveller old and chill;
For I long to brush from his shivering form
The angry curse of the hoary storm,
And take him in from the snow and sleet,
And wrap his aching feet
In soft, old moccasins, snug and warm;
And fain, too, would I go
Through the drifted banks of snow,
To the crazy shed in the dismal glen,
Where the children are moaning so,
And whisper words of hope and cheer,
How that the storm, though bleak and drear,
Perchance by morning light will clear,
Bringing the father home again.
And in the alleys and wet lanes
Where freezing children huddle together,
'T were almost worth my pains
To face this desperate weather,
If but the wish to show them good
Would pile on the blazing wood
And give them shelter, and clothes, and food!
But here I sit at my window still,
With nothing to show but a hearty will
And earnest longing to help them each,
Though far beyond my reach;
While still the wind's low, sobbing strain
Keeps smiting my ear with its sad refrain:

" Oh, the poor,
The poor and old,
On the moor
And on the wold, —
How desolate they are to-night, and cold! "
And I think how sadly to us all
Wails up this universal call
From God's great earth, in heat or cold,
In bright or blustering weather, —
For each his brother's hand should hold,
And all should hope and strive together
As equal sons of one great Father.
God knows there is enough of care
For each to have his share!
Enough, alas, of crime and sin,
Not loved, perchance, nor gloried in,
But born of poverty and woes
The rich man never knows, —
Enough to make us all forbear, —
Enough to urge our warmest powers
In gladdening this poor world of ours, —
In sowing it with golden seeds
Of generous resolves and deeds, —
In scattering sunshine all around,
Alike on rich and fallow ground.
So would this earth be nearer God, —
Till, throwing its warm life abroad,
'T would blossom to the very skies,
A harvest of glad prophecies!
The aloe of the patient centuries!

While with my goat I measured heights, and he —
Was somewhat, of the two, the taller deemed,
Chloris I loved, who from that hour to me
A wonder, not a woman, always seemed. ...
One day I lisped — " I love thee! " — it could be
Less from my lips than heart the accents teemed —
She smiled and kissed me, — " Innocent! " said she
[ " ]Thou know'st not what love is, thou hast not dreamed. "
She loved another, and he her — Time flew
And I grew up to manhood's burning years
With them alas! my fatal passion grew;
But she disdains, or spurns me, or scarce hears,
Forgetful of the past — while I bedew
The memory of that kiss and smile with tears!