Classic Poem

O YET , ere gone from me for ever, give me back that dream of old,
The Olympian gods reclining on their thrones of cloud and gold;
Let me trace in living picture visions of a youth sublime,
When my love was faith in idol-worship of that elder time.

I pause not in memory's chambers o'er those records wild that tell
How the Titans, climbing heavenward on piled mountains, fought and fell;
Pelion and reeling Ossa from their rent foundations hurled
'Gainst the thunder-god, descended on his battle-field, the world.

I pass by the tale revealing where rebellion, darkly nursed
By the gods in secret conclave, on the Cloud-compeller burst;
When the chain of fate he lowered, prescient of victory shown,
Earth and Titan-gods defying to upheave him from his throne.

Give me back that calmer vision when the gods, in fear or joy,
Throned o'er Ida's wooded summits, sate and watched beleaguered Troy;
Where from starry heights the cressets blazed above the banquet bright,
Heaped with cates ambrosial, sparkling with the nectar's rosy light.

From the brink of heaven they watched the Ægean circling like an azure shield,
Isles inlaid on its bossed surface studded o'er a heaving field,
Where the Grecian barks were lying with furled sails and cordage bare,
Fine as gossamer threads floating on the slumberous summer air.

They saw where the golden Simois mingled with Scamander's stream;
Troy's grey towers bathed in sunlight; the far flash and brazen gleam
Of bright shields and helmets glittering from the Greek and Trojan bands,
Where the Argive tents stretched whitening like strayed sea-birds on the sands.

They heard rise the roar of battle from the rampart-wall o'erthrown,
Shafts, and stones, and javelin-tempest hurled on Hector's helm alone;
Stern Atrides, giant Ajax, back recoiling to the van,
Doubtful if through those cleft portals burst a demigod or man!

Then grave Hera's eyes refulgent on the eternal Father turned,
Helmed Athena frowned on Ares, in stern wrath Poseidon burned;
Placid on his throne unshaken, unperturbed the Thunderer sate,
Watching on that field of heroes each fulfil his law of fate.

There Patroclus shouted, blazing in Pelides' arms arrayed;
There the rally, and the flying, by the Lycian hero stayed;
But the Sire, his eyes averted from that combat wild and vain,
And the sigh suppressed broke from him o'er divine Sarpedon slain!

Back the battle surging, Hector's heel is on the victor pressed,
And the Achillean armour torn in triumph from his breast;
But Zeus turned his prescient forehead; in those shouts the dirges heard
Of Troy wailing o'er her hero, fate but for the hour deferred.

Then limped forth Hephaestus leering; with his hands begrimed he took
The raised goblet, pledging Hera and great Zeus, with wheedling look;
Aping Momus from behind him, on his footsteps halting after,
Broke the gloom, convulsing gods with inextinguishable laughter.

Then the harps were strung, and music thrilled above that joyous throng,
And Apollo's voice in chorus rose above the Muse's song;
" Io Paean! gods or mortals, would ye taste a bliss divine,
Steep your senses in oblivion, drink, oh drink this gushing wine!

" Let the warriors in the battle fall or triumph, let fate lower
On their heads, or fame or fortune crown them, 'tis but for an hour;
But oh, let not mortal struggles ruffle an immortal breast,
You whose being is unchanging, you whose happiness is rest! "

Pales that picture, dream-like, fading in dim distance, while the ear,
In the solemn dirge that rises from far earth, the truth doth hear.
Freedom wrestling for her birthright, then as now, sent forth the wail
Of a note whose thrilling cadence told Oppression's ancient tale;

Groans from weakness trampled over, slavery's iron chain unriven,
Poverty, earth-crushed, appealing with her wasted arms to heaven,
Swelled the dirge of wrong from nations, heard through those heroic ages,
Seen through brightest hues that blazon over fame's ensanguined pages.

Yet we bend above those records, till their life with ours is wrought,
Till their sunlike inspirations are within our bosoms caught,
Till our beings they impregnate with the fullness of their rays,
And ourselves become a portion of the forms on which we gaze.

What if they be dust, we fill them with our thought and feeling rife,
While imagination, sunlike, tints their godlike shades with life,
Till they walk again before us, shapes embodied from the grave,
And we cling to the creation and the glories which we gave.