Classic Poem

1

Over a bleak and barren plain
Where flowers never bloom —
Where never slant the gold sun-bars,
Nor any stars illume
The dim and sullen atmosphere
There brooding o'er its doom —

2

Alone there went an aged man,
Who bent and cower'd low,
As if across that hopeless waste
In fearful haste to go,
But could not, for his palsied legs
That painful dragg'd, and slow.

3

For age not come of mortal years
Had over him unroll'd;
Like wither'd leaves on winter trees
Dull memories and cold
Still whisper'd dryly at his heart —
But old — old — old!

4

And, tremulous, full oft he turn'd
His haggard, ashen face,
Expectant aye whence he had fled
To loom in dread menace
A stealthy Horror, that e'en now
Crept after him apace.

5

And long he fared with labor'd steps,
And many moaning sighs,
Till sudden changed the scene for him —
He paused in grim surmise,
And gazed, with feeble hand uplift
Unto his bleared eyes.

6

For on that plain, whose barrenness
No future may redeem,
Now with emotion manifold
His eyes behold a stream
Of solemn waters rolling with
Unbroken ebon gleam.

7

Behind the haunted desert lay,
Before a mystery, —
What hazard there of better plight,
What dark respite may be,
Not knowing yet he ventures on,
Round glancing fearfully.

8

Yet when he reached the reedy shore
To brave the river's brink,
Despair almost like peace he felt
The while he knelt to drink,
Thinking in those deep waters there
How easeful he might sink.

9

But as he bent to take the draught
He spied a nearing light;
And down the river slowly drew
A lone canoe in sight,
Wan as a crescent newly-born
Upon the verge of Night.

10

At that his eyes were steadfast set
Upon its glimmering rim;
Above the current visible
The dainty shell did swim,
Until it gleam'd upon the tide
All fair abreast of him.

11

Then forth the old man stretch'd his arms,
With mutter'd prayer and hoarse;
As if that vessel frail could hear,
It 'gan to veer, perforce
Obedient to his one appeal,
And shoreward bent its course.

12

A moment more upon that shore
And he has parted thence;
He feels the soothing waters roll,
Relieving soul and sense
From every grief by reason of
Their slumberous influence.

13

With closed eyes he lieth there,
And one by one is shorn
Of every thought with sorrow fraught,
Till he hath naught to mourn;
And far upon the bosom of
That river he is borne.

14

His age doth gradual dissolve;
He is no more uncouth;
He feels within an elixir
As if it were in sooth
The blooming of some pale, delicious
Afterflower of youth.

15

And now he's 'ware of warbling sounds,
Faint echoing and blurr'd;
And now of one more clear and strong;
A wondrous song he heard;
It seem'd the happy dreaming of
Some lone entranced bird.

16

A slow and golden slumber song,
Whose languid numbers gloze, —
A witchery of syllables
In woven spells to close
Sad eyes to long forgetfulness,
And marble-like repose.

17

At length the bird's sweet arias
In fluted notes subside;
He thinks how near its covert he
Would peacefully abide;
Then once again his eyes unclose
Upon the river's tide.

18

Around him fell a warm twilight,
The waters now were blue;
Far-off appear'd on either hand
A terraced strand in view,
Upleading to such gardens as
No mortal ever knew.

19

And while he gazed that wan canoe
Unerringly did steer,
As 'twere a thing of destiny,
And presently drew near
A gentle shore outjetting to
A mottled marble pier.

20

And mooring there he stept ashore,
Still joyously intent
On seeking for that singing-bird,
And garden-ward he went,
Strolling thro' the solitudes
In fearless wonderment.

21

'Mid spaces smooth and wide between
Where grow gigantic trees,
Whose branches ever quiver in
The faint, continual breeze,
And tangle up the placid sky
With shifting traceries

22

Yet many steps he had not gone
Ere strewn upon the ground,
Or gleaming from recesses dim,
Or near to him, he found
Abandon'd bodies beautiful
In charmed slumber bound.

23

Comely youths and maidens in
Secluded dells alone,
Or else in easy groups reclin'd,
With arms entwin'd — all prone
Like fallen statues carven out
From pallid Parian stone.

24

And some were e'en more fair to see
And shone translucent white;
They seem'd as waning to a sheen
Of pure, serene starlight;
And even as he gazed one slowly
Faded from his sight.

25

Awhile he marvell'd tranquilly,
And then his eyes did stray
To where an ancient man appear'd,
With flowing beard and grey,
Who musingly toward him bent
His solitary way.

26

But as he came his footsteps scarce
The silences bestirr'd;
He seem'd so rapt with reverent awe,
He neither saw nor heard
For holy thoughts that compass'd him, —
He pass'd without a word.

27

And gravely thro' the mighty glades
Upon his way he kept,
That ancient, lone somnambulist,
Who nothing wist except
The reveries beguiling him
Where all the others slept.

28

Then had he mind to follow on
The Elder for a guide,
Ere yet the forestry between
Should weave a screen to hide
His all-unheeding Druid form
Which on ahead did glide.

29

And long thro' aisled vistas that
Bewildering intervene
He follow'd on till he espied
A vast hillside all green,
With sloping lawns and fountains deckt,
And high whereon is seen

30

A wondrous gleaming palace built
Of alabaster stone,
With many a niche and window set
And minaret far flown
'Bove golden domes outswelling like
Fantastic fruit o'ergrown.

31

And in its centre wide beneath
An ever-open door
Gives promise of all pleasantness,
With rich recess and store
Of priceless treasures taken from
The palaces of yore.

32

Yet that so easy seeming hill
Soon fills him with amaze,
Now near, now far, the palace gleams,
Like one he seems who plays
With quick reverse of optic glass,
Until at length he strays.

33

Unto a fountain playing in
A single column cool,
Whose showering waters musical
With diamonds bejewel
The silver'd air, returning to
Their slumber in the pool.

34

And by that fountain's grassy marge
One peerless maid doth lie,
Uncompanion'd as a star,
Her beauties far outvie
All others in those gardens seen, —
He will not pass her by.

35

Her face, half pillow'd on her arm,
Is to his own upturn'd
So tenderly, that it did seem
She in her dream discern'd
His coming, and tho' bound in sleep,
Still for that coming yearn'd.

36

His last desire finds body here
The while he bends to kiss
Her lips that open like a flower —
What dulcet hour is this!
And half she wakens in his arms
While he doth swoon for bliss.

37

There hath he fallen by her side,
All outer life is spent,
And pale of their enamoured sleep
They yield in deep content;
Thro' ages long to pass away
In utter vanishment.