Classic Poem

'M ID the harsh Babel of the busy crowd
A sudden voice my inward spirit bowed,
A friendly voice, that told me of thy doom;—
That years, and sorrows, and the world's rude strife,
Had pushed thee from the battle-ground of life
To the oblivious calm that dwelleth in the tomb.

Shade of my friend! although my languid lyre
Withheld the mournful tribute of its fire,
Not the less dear thy memory to me;
Deep in my heart the solemn feeling lay,
Till the renewed remembrance of to-day
Came forth in feeble language, all unworthy thee!

Warm was thy soul, without or pride or guile;
Thy liberal hand, thy sympathising smile,
Were prompt the suffering wretch to cheer and raise:
To God devoted, and to nature true,
Gentle and genial as the summer dew
Thy silent bounty fell, nor asked for human praise.

And I have marked thy countenance and mien,
Quiet, but kindly—watchful, but serene,
Govern thy household more by love than fear;
And I have seen thy manly features glow,
And heard thy lips with eloquent speech o'erflow,
When souls of kindred mood around thy board drew near.

Scorning vain show, thy not untutored mind
Cherished a lofty sense of things refined,—
Things that adorn, and dignify, and bless;
And loving Truth for her sweet sake divine,
That best religion of the heart was thine,
A yearning evermore to make man's sorrows less.

And thou did'st glory in the poet's song,—
Poet thyself, though nameless 'mid the throng
That cheer, charm, elevate the human race;
But now thou hear'st the everlasting hymn,
The harps and voices of the seraphim
That kneel in radiant ranks before the throne of grace.

If e'er again my vagrant footsteps stray
Along each pleasant and romantic way
We trod together in the summer glow,
Each form and feature of the varied scene
Will wake sad memories of what hath been,
And lift my chastened thoughts from transient things below.

In lofty Marsden's cultivated glades,
In lordly Gisborne's proud, patrician shades,
By gentle Calder's ever-tuneful stream,
On cloud-communing Pendle's barren side,
'Mid Whalley's ruins of monastic pride,
Fancy will raise thee up, to stir me like a dream.

In grassy Craven's long-withdrawing dales,
In gloomy Gordale, where the storm prevails,
By Malham's giant cliff and secret wave,
And by that lonely tarn where once we sang,
Till the rough rocks with startled echoes rang,
Some thought of thee will come and whisper of the grave.

Friend of my later days! thou sleepest well;
And many a grateful tongue is left to tell
What gentle thoughts, what generous deeds, were thine;
And in that calm and consecrated spot,
Where thou, forgetting, wilt not be forgot,—
With thy dear children's tears I fain would mingle mine.