Classic Poem

It was morning. Rosy fingered Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of
the east, and unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the
young king of day. The glad earth, bathed with the dews of night, and
redolent with flowers, lay blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant
beams, and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most beautiful
garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall, the sigh of the breeze,
the carol of the birds, and the hum of busy life--all fell upon the
ear, making enchanting melody--music that touched the soul.

Cradled in its downy bed, beneath a window closely curtained, to
obstruct the light, lay a sleeping infant, whose dawn of life had just
begun. Its very helplessness demanded our love and pity. It smiled and
wept, but knew not why; but succeeding days added strength and vigor
to his frame, and he came forth in all the sportiveness and beauty of
infant loveliness.

It was noon; the sun had gained his zenith in the heavens, and shed
down his scorching rays upon the parched earth, that lay drooping
beneath his noon-day beams. Scarce a leaf was seen to move, the birds
sat silent with folded wing, in the leafy branches, the flowers hung
fainting upon their stems, and nature shrank from the oppressive heat.

The cradled infant had passed from infancy to childhood, from
childhood to youth, from youth to manhood, through the various changes
that mark each successive period, and he now stood in the meridian of
life,

"With all his blushing honors thick upon him."

His brow was marked by care and anxiety, and he seemed ambitious
to win a name. "Fear first assailed the child, and he trembled and
screamed; but at a frown, with youth came love, torturing the hapless
bosom, where fierce flames of rage, resentment, jealousy contend.
Disturbed ambition presented next, to bid him grasp the moon and
waste his days in angry sighs, add deep rivalry for shadows, till
to conclude the wretched catalogue, appears pale avarice, straining
delusive counters to his breast, e'en in the hour of death." Such are
human passions.

It was evening; the curtains of the west were tinged with the varied
dyes of sunset, and nature seemed revived by the cool, fresh evening
breeze, and smiled complacently beneath the sun's last ray. The full
orbed moon arose in the east, and the crystal streams reflected
myriads of diamonds beneath her silver beams, and the stars, those
golden lamps of night, shone bright in the blue chambers of the sky.
An aged man was leaning on his staff, the vigor of life had departed,
his locks were thin and scattered, his palsied limbs would scarce
perform their office. His eye was dim--no longer beaming with
intelligence, and he muttered to himself, as he groped his way along,
worn out with the cares, sorrows and perplexities of a busy life,
deep furrows were upon his cheeks, and his whole appearance bespoke
a weary, way-worn child of earth. He took his solitary way, down a
retired path, thickly shaded with fir, holly and yew, through whose
thick foliage the struggling moonbeam scarce could penetrate, and
the air was filled with humid vapors, gloomy silence as of the tomb
reigned around, but exhausted nature sank, and the aged man pillowed
his head upon the bosom of earth, and closed his weary eyes to rest,
for he was a homeless wanderer.

It was deep, solemn midnight; a dense cloud had obscured the sky,
and hid the refulgent light of the moon; the wind howled in fitful
murmurs, the thunder rolled in the distance, lightnings glared, and
nature wrapped herself in the sable shroud of midnight, and seemed
shrieking a death-wail in her many voices.

Beside the gray haired man stood a pale visitant from the spirit land,
to summons him away; he laid his icy hand upon his waning pulse, and
chilled the current of his struggling breath. No friend was nigh, but
his spirit passed gently away, leaving his countenance placid and
serene in death.

Such is the end of human life. A little mound of heaped up earth marks
the spot, where the weary pilgrim is at rest. All who tread in the
path way of life, must lie down too, "with the pale nations of the
dead," mingle with common dust, and become the sport of the winds.