Classic Poem

In the calm shadow of this Sabbath night,
Restraining vicious thought and vain desire,
I sit with sober, but unseen delight,
In the blithe presence of my flickering fire;—
Recall my struggles with the stormy past,
And wonder how my heart withstood the trying blast.

And yet it beats within my quiet breast
As warmly, not as wildly, as of old;
Perchance a little better for the test
Of human sorrows, mixed and manifold:
Perchance more fitted to repel or bear
The now familiar stings of poverty and care.

Books are about me, full of glorious things,
Left by the good and gifted of the earth,—
Pearls shaken, like the dews, from Fancy's wings,
Burnings of pathos, scintillings of mirth;
And, what is nearer unto Heaven allied,
The Christian's treasure-page, and comforter, and guide!

Beings, how dearly loved! are circled round,
Talking together in an undertone
Of pleasant voices, lest too rude a sound
Should wake the dreamer from his musings lone:
While the old cricket in his corner dim,
Pours on my passive ear his undisturbing hymn.

My street-bound home is unadorned and small,
With an accessible and ready door;—
No picture smiling on the plaster wall,
No carpet sleeping on the stony floor;
No graceful garniture, no couch of down,
No rich array of robes to make the envious frown.

But there is food prepared from day to day,
Won by the energies of hand and brain;
A hard, but grateful bed, whereon to lay
The limb of labour, and the head of pain:
And peace is with my household morn and night,
While through life's passing clouds love looks with purer light.

Beholding others sinking deeper still
On the rough road of our uncertain life,
Feeble, indeed, though resolute in will,
Waging with fortune a perpetual strife;
Partly forgetful of my darker days,
My silent soul sends up involuntary praise.