Classic Poem

The night was dark, the winds were out,
The stars hid in the sky,
The mousing owl too-hoo'd aloud
The wan moon rushing by.
I sat there in my lonely room,
The children all asleep;
Ah! there they lay in dreams at play,
While I nurst sorrows deep.

I ponder'd long this weary life;
I cried, " Is 't as it seems,
Or sail we here in phantom ship,
In search of vanish'd dreams,
From deep to deep, from doubt to doubt,
While Night still deeper grows?
Who knows the meaning of this life? "
A voice replied, " Who knows? "

" Shall it a myst'ry always be?
Is none to lift the veil?
Knows no one aught of land we left,
Or port to which we sail?
Poor shipwreck'd mariners, driv'n about
By ev'ry wind that blows,
Is there a haven of rest at all? "
The voice replied, " Who knows? "

" Why have we longings infinite,
Affections deep and high,
And glorious dreams of immortal things,
If we're but born to die?
Are they but will-o-wisps, that gleam
Where deadly night-shade grows?
End they in dust and ashes all? "
The voice still cried, " Who knows? "

Its hopeless tones fell on my heart,
A dark and heavy cloud;
The great horn'd moon look'd down on me
In terror from its shroud.
It plainly said, " Ye're orphans all,
Is there no balm for woes? "
The screech-owl cried, the night wind sigh'd,
Alas, alas, " Who knows? "

I pray'd for light that weary night,
I question'd saint and seer;
But demon Doubt put all to rout,
Kept ringing in mine ear:
" Your life's a trance, a mystic dance,
And round and round ye go;
Ye're poor ghosts all at spectral ball,
And that's the most ye know.

" Ye dance and sing in spectral ring,
Affrighted Nature raves;
The screech-owls cry, the night-winds sigh,
The dead turn in their graves.
Ye come like thought, ye pass to naught,
And what surprises most,
'Mid your ghostly fun there's hardly one
Believes himself a ghost!

" Oh! thought is sad, 'twould make you mad;
'Tis folly to weep and rave;
So follow Mirth around the earth —
There's naught beyond the grave.
Your hearts would sink, dared ye to think,
So dance with death at the ball;
And round ye go till cock shall crow,
And that's the end of all. "