Classic Poem

Sing on, sweet bird, thy gentle strain
"Can't cool my brow, or cool my brain;"
But yet, thou hast a magic pow'r
To lull me in a fev'rish hour;
Thy pleasant notes, so sweet and clear,
Come soft and mellow'd to my ear.
And when my head is rack'd with pain,
Burning my brow, throbbing my brain,--
When all's tumultuous, toss'd, and wild,
And frantic as a wayward child;
Roaring as if old ocean's waves
Were bursting from their coral caves;
Tossing as if old ocean's foam
Were rocking to its highest home;
Moaning as if the sea bird's wail
Were screaming o'er the tattered sail;
And ev'ry ship were tempest toss'd,--
Its rudder gone,--its pilot lost;
And no kind ray of light were giv'n,
To cheer them, from the vault of heav'n,
Save the vivid lightning's flash,--
Pealing the deep ton'd thunder crash,
Glancing upon the tow'ring wave,
Above the seaman's yawning grave;--
Glaring into that dark abyss,
Where hideous monsters dart and hiss,
And ship wreck'd seamen, far from home.
Toss amid the briny foam;
Till the proud wave, with one stern sweep,
Buries the secrets of the deep;
Revealing far, on upper land,
A lawless bandits' wand'ring band,
With sword and rapier, stain'd with blood,
Still thirsting for the crimson flood;
They show no mercy on their kind,
But kill or plunder all they find.
Then dies the flash, as ocean's moan
Sends back a low, sepulchral groan,
Leaving all nature dark and still,
As midnight sleeping on the hill,
While all around unearthly seems,
As frightened Hecate's spectral dreams;
Till bubbling, gushing through each vein,
The frenzied current turns again,--
My hurrying pulses faster play,
And conjure up the dread array,--
Glaring spectres, side by side,
In mould'ring shrouds around me glide;
Death's damp wreaths are round their hair,
And coffin worms hold revel there.
Gibb'ring, they come from ancient tombs,
Stealing from low sepulchral glooms,
From vault and charnel house they rise,
With bloodless cheek, and hollow eyes,
They point the finger,--shake the head,
And hold strange converse round my bed;
Together there, in council meet,
With coffin, pall and winding sheet,--
Seem waiting, with their dread array,
To bear my lifeless form away.
They stand with mattock, and with spade,--
On me their icy hands are laid,
While noisome vapors round me spread,
Bespeak the precincts of the dead.
E'en then, sweet bird, at such an hour,
When reason almost resigns her power;
Thy pleasant notes have magic art,
To soothe my palpitating heart;
They come as wild, as free, as clear,
As though no pain or woe were near.

'Tis true, that friendship's hand is kind,
My aching brow and heart to bind;
Beside my bed a husband stands,
And anxious children press my hands;
A gentle mother acts her part,
And sisters, with each winning art;
Father and brothers waiting still,
The slightest mandate of my will;
Each anxious, who shall earliest prove,
The tender gushings of their love.

Sometimes there comes a vision fair,
Of waving groves, and balmy air,
Of placid skies, serene and mild,
As slumber stealing o'er a child;
Where breezes hushed to deep repose,
Sleep in the bosom of the rose,
And scarcely lift their fragile wing,
One dew-drop from the flower to fling;
But leave it for the sun's warm ray,
To kiss the pearly tear away.
Pleasant sounds the gushing rill,
That bubbles down the verdant hill,
Murmuring along ifs native glen,
Far from the fev'rish haunts of men,--
Till kissing soft its pebbly shore,
It dies, nor ever murmurs more.
And fairy forms around me dance,--
Now they retreat, and now advance;
Bright wreaths around their heads they wear,
And lutes in their fair hands they bear,
Each warbling forth, in cadence low,
Their pleasant number, as they go,
And music floats high in mid air,
As bands of angels hover'd there;
Four massive chains of purest gold,
A chrystal island seem to hold,
Gently waving it in air,
As angel spirits lingered there.
Like ocean, in a summer day,
When gentlest zephyrs with him play.--
Just curl the ripples on his breast,
Then sighing, sink with him to rest.
Beside the streams are pleasant bowers
Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,
Where insects float with gayest wing,
And birds with sweetest voices sing,
And happy spirits, free from care,
Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;
Their forms are beauteous to behold,
White silken wings, spangled with gold,
Help them with easy grace to rise
From this fair world to yonder skies.
They come and go at even tide,
And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;
And when they wish for railroad cars.
They ride upon the shooting stars:
Firmly unite them in a train,
And skim along the aerial plain;
No locomotive do they need,
For their own will propels their speed.
The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,
Sighs responsive to each gale;
Its chords are strung 'mid branching trees,
And echo to ev'ry passing breeze;
Gently they vibrate through the grove,
Touching the chords of life and love,
Mixed with the sounds that round me float.
I hear, sweet bird, thy mellow note;
For as in sunshine, as in rain,
Thou comest to cheer me with thy strain.
Few friends so kind to come each day,
To sing the tedious hours away.

But pleasant visions vanish soon,
And the bright sun grows dim at noon.
The pleasant gales forget to play,
And dark and fearful grows the day.
The waving island takes its flight,
Far from the stretch of human sight;
High in 'mid air it seems to rise,
Dissolving, mixing with the skies.
But ah, it leaves no vacant place,
For grisly phantoms take its place.
Thus ever varying all things seem
"Fickle as a changeful dream;"
And naught is left of that gay train,
My gentle bird, but thy sweet strain.
O who can tell in hours of ease,
Of fancies wild, and strange as these?
When health gushes through each vein,
Who paint the fever of the brain?
Who picture half the grief and pain
That follows pale sickness in her train?
With bitterest dregs she fills her cup,
And makes her victims drink them up:
Binds them to thorny pillows down,
And frightens sleep with her stern frown;
Or if perchance the eyelids close,
She gives her victim no repose,
But hurries round and madly screams,
And conjures up her wildest dreams,
Binds reason in her iron chains,
To fancy gives her longest reins,
And whips and spurs it, through the brain,
Till startling nature wakes again.
She flings the rose from beauty's cheek,
And on it paints her hectic streak;
Takes rosy childhood from his play,
And gives grim death the beauteous prey;
For ever round her footsteps steal
To pick for him his glutton meal;
And still she keeps her promise good.

To pamper him with hourly food;
But yet they stand there, side by side,
Death and the grave, unsatisfied.
For should a million hourly die,
Twould not their appetites supply.
But what seem curses to our eyes
Are nought but blessings in disguise;
And sickness is in mercy given
To wean the soul from earth to heaven;
For were all bright and joyous here.
Who would think on yon, bright sphere?
But pleasure pinioned to this sod,
Our thoughts would never rise to God.
And death's the passage to the skies,
Through which our ransom'd souls must rise,
To yonder blissful, bright abode,
Where dwells our Father and our God.
But now, sweet bird, I miss thy tone,
And feel at least one pleasure gone;
A prowling cat, foe to thy kind,
Thus wrought the evil she designed.
Thy life and songs forever o'er,
Thou wilt charm my ear no more.
Thus in life's uncertain day,
The singing birds oft snatch'd away:
And they who linger long in pain
Suffered to linger and remain.
But God is just in his decrees,
And wisely orders things like these.