Classic Poem

Come hovering night, spread out thy pinions wide,
Shut in the vale and let no moon be seen,
The blood-red eye of day, O quickly hide!
Make black this earth that late was fair and green.

Weep heavy clouds, and mourn ye sombre hills,
Cover the dale with saddest weeds of woe;
Stay not your grief ye many trickling rills,
O sad south wind, softly the yew trees blow.

For suddenly upon the mountain steep
Death cut the little rope of life in twain,
And though sad skies for evermore should weep
Death will not yield his prisoners again.

Say, fearful gaoler, is this world so fair
That these, the flower of manhood, thou shouldst seek?
Poor grovellers at thy gate why dost thou spare,
And on the fearless all thy malice wreak?

As when the vengeful lightning splits the sky,
And cleaves the verdurous oak with burning sword,
Heedless if 'neath wide-arching boughs may lie
Reposeful youth that loved the shady sward.

Not theirs to hear the trumpets of renown,
No Pisgah did their hapless footsteps tread,
Exultant life was all they sought for crown,
And fickle Life betrayed them to the Dead.

Shall coward fools their daring pastime mock?
Or weakling bodies deem their ardour vain?
Fools that in fashion's congregations flock,
Or soft indulgents, weak in limb as brain.

O weep again ye mourners of the skies,
But not for these who cannot feel your grief;
Lament for those who seek some gaudy prize
For art, or sport, or friendship, or belief.

And thou, sweet Joy, whose gentle hand hath skill
To limn the book of life with shining gold,
Rejoice that these, though dead, do serve thee still,
Lament that those, neglecting thee, grow cold.

O stricken bodies, have ye not a word,
Spoken in death, to ease our heavy pain?
Must hope for solace alway be deferred
Until the living meet their dead again?

“Our feet were skilled to tread the easy tracks,
Nor did we slight the ways by others worn:
But rightful courage perfect mast'ry lacks
Until it succour hope when most forlorn.

“Hidden in flowers of ease and safety lie
Insidious poisons, fearfully distilled:
But on the steepest crags of mountains high
The air with Joy's unending song is filled.

“For weary feet the grass of verdant vale,
For childish limbs the slow ascending road:
But for maturity, lest progress fail,
Untraversed peaks hath God, in love, bestowed.”