Classic Poem

He grasped an angel's hand and rose
From the grand ruins of his clay,
And in the white day's silvery close
Through the great city took his way.

His guide — O strange, familiar face
And bright'ning smile he seemed to know,
And clinging hand and tender grace!
O vision from the Long Ago!

From purple dark to purple dark
The red lights of the city rolled;
Below the moon, a living spark,
One bright star beat its wings of gold.

The clang of iron bells outburst,
Shrill shrieks of engines swelled the tide;
Another day, both blest and curst
With toil, had risen, lived and died.

The wave of labour rose and rolled
From arch and alley, lane and street;
The harsh clocks thro' the city tolled,
Roared the swift flood of hast'ning feet.

Swift opal quivered up the west,
And cast its fires to hast'ning stars;
The clear moon beat her silver breast,
Dove-like, against low saffron bars.

Like swords which smote a chill, pure flame
From the clear breastplate of the night,
The long, swift north-blades went and came
And set the mystic Pole alight.

And eve lay as the corpse of one
Who had not lived till life was old:
Silver the bier she rested on,
So pure, so beautiful, so cold.

O'er country snows, within the town,
By circling lake, by dark pine tree,
Chill winds moaned, monk-like, up and down:
" O Miserere, Domine! "

And loud or low in every soul
Of all the hurrying throngs they met,
They heard the same chant upward roll,
To each one's holiest anguish set.

His angel spake: " O hark and hear
The living wail forever thus,
While we, the dead, sing high and clear
A bold Te Deum Laudamus! "

He answered not, but on his soul
A trembling wonder cloud-like lay:
Why seek they not some star-surfed goal?
Why tread this old familiar way?

Then to his silent thought she said:
" By this familiar way we go;
High Wisdom sends the happy dead
To find their first of Heaven below.

" O hearken, Love! " They paused a space
Where want made grim the squalid way;
Soft whispers stole about the place:
" God bless the man who died to-day,

" Friend of the poor. " Her sweet eyes smiled.
" By this, " she said, " they crown you king;
Of golden blessings undefiled
Are wrought the sceptre, crown, and ring. "

Again they paused. In long-stretched ward,
Tranced from their pain, racked creatures lay;
From parched lips stole the whisper, " Lord,
Bless our dead friend who died to-day,

" Friend of the helpless! " Rapt he gazed.
What music struck the trembling air!
What glories round him beat and blazed!
May Heaven be here or Heaven be there?

He knew not, caring not to know:
He only knew — most grandly blest —
That on the wheeling earth below
The first of Heaven lay in his breast.

And as he scaled the star-based hill
Which toward the upper glories lay,
That sweet sound followed stronger still:
" God bless the man who died to-day! "