Classic Poem

I.

P ALE in her fading bowers the Summer stands,
Like a new Niobe with clasped hands,
Mute o'er the faded flowers, her children lost,
Slain by the arrows of the early frost!
The clouded Heaven above is pale and gray,
The misty Earth below is wan and drear,
The baying Winds chase all the leaves away,
As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer; —
It is a solemn time, the sunset of the year!

II.

My heart is sick and sad, for I have toiled
In iron poverty and hopeless tears,
Tugging in fetters at the oar for years,
And, wrestling in the ring of Life, have soiled
My robes with dust, and strained my sinews sore;
I have no strength to struggle any more!
And what if I should perish? None would miss
An idle dreamer in a world like this;
Whate'er our beauty, worth, or loving powers,
We live, we strive, we die, and are forgot;
We are no more regarded than the flowers,
And death and darkness is our destined lot!
One bud from off the tree of Life is naught,
One fruit from off the ripening bough of Thought;
The hinds will ne'er lament, in harvest-time,
The bud or fruit that fell and wasted in its prime!

III.

Away with Action! 't is the ban of Time,
The curse that clung to us from Eden's gate;
We toil, and strain, and tug from youth's fair prime,
And drag a chain for years, a weary weight!
Away with Action! and Laborious Life, —
It was not made for man,
In Nature's plan,
For man was made for quiet, not for strife,
The pearl is shaped serenely in its shell
In the still waters of the ocean deep;
The buried seed begins to pulp and swell
In Earth's warm bosom in profoundest sleep,
And, sweeter far than all, the bridal rose
Flushes to fulness in a soft repose.
Let others gather honey in the world,
And hoard it in their cells until they die;
I am content in dreaminess to lie,
Sipping, in summer hours,
My wants from fading flowers,
An Epicurean till my wings are furled!

IV.

What happy hours, what happy, happy days,
Were mine when I was young, a careless boy,
Oblivious of the world, — its woe or joy!
I lived for Song, and dreamed of budding bays!
I thought when I was dead, if not before,
(I hoped before,) to have a noble name,
To leave my eager footprints on the shore,
And rear my statue in the halls of Fame!
I pondered o'er the Poets dead of old,
Their memories living in the minds of men;
I knew they were but men of mortal mould,
They won their crowns, and I might win again.
I drank delicious vintage from their pages,
Flasks of Parnassian nectar, stored for ages;
My soul was flushed within me, maddened, fired;
I leaped impassioned, like a seer inspired;
I lived, and would have died, for Poesy,
In youth's divine emotion:
A stream that sought its ocean,
A Time that longed to be
Engulfed, and swallowed in its calm Eternity!

V.

O Poesy! my spirit's crowned queen,
I would that thou couldst in the flesh be seen,
The shape of perfect loveliness thou art,
Enshrined within the chambers of my heart!
I would build thee a palace, richer far
Than princely Aladeen's renowned of old;
With walls and columns all of massy gold,
And every gem incrusting it a star!
Thy-throne a pillar of sunset, canopied
With purple mists, a shielded Moon o'erhead;
Thy coffers should o'erflow, and mock the Ind,
Whose boasted wealth would dwindle down to naught;
The rich-ored driftings of the streams of Thought,
Washed lucidly from cloven peaks of Mind!
And I would bring to thee the daintiest things
That grow beneath the summer of thy wings;
Wine from the Grecian vineyards, pressed with care,
Brimming in cups antique, and goblets rare;
And luscious fruitage of enchanted trees,
From magic orchard plots with charmed gates;
And golden apples of the Hesperides,
Stolen by Fancy from the guardant Fates;
And I would hang around thee day and night,
Nor ever heed, or know the night from day;
If Time had wings, I should not see his flight,
Or feel his shadow in my sunny way!
Forgetful of the world, I 'd stand apart,
And gaze on thee unseen, and touch my lute,
A perfect type and image of my heart,
Whose trembling chords will never more be mute;
And Joy and Grief would mingle in my theme,
A swan and shadow floating down the stream!
And when thou didst in soft disdain, or mirth,
Descend thy throne and walk the common earth,
I would, in brave array, precede thee round,
With pomp and pageantry, and music sweet,
And spread my shining mantle on the ground,
For fear the dust should soil thy golden-sandalled feet!

VI.

Away! away! the days are dim and cold;
The withered flowers are crumbling in the mould;
The Heaven is gray and blank, the Earth is drear,
And fallen leaves are heaped on Summer's bier!
Sweet songs are out of place, however sweet,
When all things else are wrapt in funeral gloom;
True Poets never pipe to dancing feet,
But only elegies around a tomb!
Away with fancy now! the Year demands
A sterner chaplet, and a deeper lay;
A wreath of cypress woven with pious hands,
A dirge for its decay!