Classic Poem

Though still the darkness on the hills is lying
And still the starless horror of the night
There comes a voice that cries, “The gloom is dying!
There comes a sound and rumour of the light

We who have watched through sunless years and waited
Nor seen the hosts of darkness once withdrawn
Nor felt the stress of anguish once abated
Hear half in doubt a whisper of the dawn.

The light we see not yet superbly gleaming
Across the wastes of unaccustomed skies
May reach a younger soul, may now be streaming
Athwart the clouds that part for younger eyes.

Hail, friend, who seest the far-off morning bringing
Triumph the Church's treacherous spears delay:
Greeting from those who mid the gloom are singing
To one whose song shall sound beneath the day

Greeting to one who, when thought's host advances,
When morning's jewels flash on flower and tree,
Shall meet morn's sun-bright look with equal glances
And see the face we love but shall not see.

Greeting to one who, though the dark around him
Grew loud with tongues that clamoured and defamed,
Knew none the less the sun-god's hand that found him,
The smile that drew, the regnant touch that claimed.

Greeting from hearts which in the darkness fighting,
Lit by the flame alone of flashing swords,
Bound at the news of bright-helmed morning smiting
With golden bow the raven-armoured hordes.

Greeting from one whose troubled note gave warning
Though starless robes swept flowerless field and lawn
Of the rich plumes and crimson robes of morning,
The lustrous pomp and pageant of the dawn.

The singer passes, but the dream he cherishes
With heart that chides the insufficient tongue,
This passes not; it fades not out, nor perishes:
The dream that thrilled him once, now thrills the young.

He saw fair love approach, whose touch discloses
Veiled secrets hidden in history's moonless night:
He saw love, lying dead among white roses,
With brow and cheek than roses even more white.

He watched the sunset on cold mountains dying;
He watched the hopeless foam on sunless seas:—
Now waves and mountains cry, “Too self-relying,
Young hearts are living—thy thought lives in these!

“Around thy path have stormed with onset breathless
Truth's foes, the lovers of old crime and wrong;
But England lives, and fearless thought is deathless,
And on youth's brows abides the light of song.

“Thy sword that, if it conquered not, ne er rusted,
Thy shield that bears the dints of countless blows,
Thine helmet—these, to England's youth entrusted,
Shall watch the flight and downfall of thy foes.”