Classic Poem

The moon pursues her stealthy course,
The shades grow gray upon the hill,
Silence has fallen on the stream,
Fresh from the valley blows the wind;
The songster of spring days has hushed
His notes in waste of gloomy groves,
The herds are couched along the fields,
And calm the flight of midnight hour.

And night the peaceful ingle-nook
Has with her misty livery clad;
In stove the flames have ceased to dart,
And candle down to socket burned;
The saintly face of household gods
Now darkly gloom from modest shrine,
And taper pale in dimness burns
Before the guardians of home.

With head in hand bent lowly down,
In sweet forgetfulness deep plunged,
I lose myself in fancy dreams,
And lie awake on lonely couch;
As with the weird dark shades of night,
Illumined by the soft moon's rays,
Wingèd dreams, in hurrying crowds,
Flock down and strongly seize my soul.

And now flows forth a soft, soft voice,
The golden chords in music tremble;
And in the hour when all is still,
The dreamer young begins his song,
With secret ache of soul possessed
And dreams that come from God alone,
With flying hand he boldly smites
The breathing strings of heavenly lyre.

Blessed is he who, born in lowly hut,
Prays not for fortune or for wealth;
From him great Jove, with watchful eyes,
Will turn mishap that teems with ruin;
At eve, on lotos flowers couched,
He lies enwrapped in softest sleep;
Nor harshest sound of warrior's trump
Has power to stir him from his dream.

Let glory, with her daring front,
Strike loudly on her noisy shield;
In vain she tempts me from afar,
With skinny finger red in blood;
In vain war's gaudy banners float,
Or battle-ranks their pomp display;
Peace has higher charms for gentle heart,
Nor do I care for glory's prize.

In solitude my blood is tamed,
And tranquilly the days pass by:
From God I have the gift of song,
Of gifts the rarest, most divine;
And never has the Muse betrayed me:
Be thou with me, oh goddess dear,
The vilest home or desert wild
Shall have a beauty of their own.

In dusky dawn of golden days
The untried singer thou hast blessed,
As with a wreath of myrtle fresh
Thou didst encrown his childish brow,
And, bringing with thee light from heaven,
Radiant made his humble cell;
And, gently breathing, thou didst lean
O'er his cradle with blessing sweet.

For ever be my friend and guide
Even to the threshold of the grave!
O'er me hover with gentlest dreams,
And shroud me with thy shielding wings!
Banish far all doubt and sorrow,
Possess the mind with fond deceit,
A glory shed o'er my far life,
And scatter wide its darkest gloom!

Thus peace shall bless my parting hour,
The genius of Death shall come,
And whisper, knocking at the door,
“The dwelling of the shades awaits thee!”
E'en so, on winter eve sweet sleep
Frequents with joy the home of peace,
With lotos crowned, and lowly bent
On restful staff of languid ease.