Classic Poem

The silent history of a word,
Borne on Time's stream along,
Has never yet been sung or heard,
It asks the voice of song.

'Twas born from the soul's calm deep,
Smit by the chastening rod;
As Eve, flesh-formed from Adam's sleep,
Touched by the hand of God.

It wandered o'er the unyielding earth,
By war and famine worn,
A stranger seen, of unknown birth;
Though night, a child of morn.

'Twas welcomed in the lowly cot,
'Twas heard in kingly hall;
And men their arms and strife forgot,
In listening to its call.

It told of peace that would not fail,
Of love that could not die;
'Twas felt beneath the warrior's mail,
It dried the mourner's eye.

I looked along the path it took,
As told by legends old
Repeated oft from book to book;
It shone as shining gold.

A furrow through earth's barren field,
Ploughed deep, and sown with care;
But none to notice what it yields,
Or in its harvest share.