Classic Poem

Roused by the war-note, in review I pass'd
The polities of nations—their intrigues—
Their long-drawn wars and hates—their loves and leagues;
But when I came on sad Vienna, last,
Her scroll of annals, timidly unroll'd,
Ran backward from my helpless hands! the woe
Of that one hour that laid our Arthur low,
Made all her chronicle look blank and cold:
Then turn'd I to that Book of memory,
Which is to grieving hearts like the sweet south
To the parch'd meadow, or the dying tree;
Which fills with elegy the craving mouth
Of sorrow—slakes with song her piteous drouth,
And leaves her calm, though weeping silently!