Classic Poem

This then shall close my votive strain;
Whate'er has been, may be again.
Springs not the lightning from a cloud
Midst weeping showers, and murmurs loud?
Comes not the sun's all-quickening mien
Midst mists and wreaths of darkness seen?
Smiles not the moon's loved, pensive light
Upon the very couch of night?
And hast thou seen joy spring from sorrow?
And shalt thou doubt the coming morrow?
Well do I know the gloom profound,
The blasted scene that hems thee round.
But is there not a power alive
That bids gloom flee, and hope revive?
And yet, whate'er besides departs,
Thou hast a treasure of true hearts,
Enough from grief thy soul to win,
And soothe the love of life within.
But ere we part, raise now thine eye,
And cast a look on nature's face;
Tell me, in all its wide expanse,
Canst thou a tint but beauty's trace?
A scene where light and rapture dance;
A scene where ear, and heart, and glance,
Meet life, and melody, and peace;
A feast of millions from the hand
Of him whose mercies never cease.
Oh! canst thou think that his command
Shall thus the streams of gladness roll
O'er all creation's millions wide,
Alike their God and thine, nor guide
One rill of comfort to thy soul?
Then fare thee well! that guide divine
Shall lead alike thy steps and mine;
And know, that from my conscious heart
The treasured past shall ne'er depart:
In grief or pleasure, pain or prayer,
Thy imaged presence shall be there;
And 't will a pensive pleasure be,
My lyre's last notes were spent on thee!