Classic Poem

All things are symbols; and we find
In morning's lovely prime,
The actual history of the mind
In its own early time:
So, to the youthful poet's gaze,
A thousand colours rise,—
The beautiful which soon decays,
The buoyant which soon dies.

So does not die their influence,
The spirit owns the spell;
Memory to him is music—hence
The magic of his shell.
He sings of general hopes and fears—
A universal tone;
All weep with him, for in his tears
They recognise their own.

Yet many a one, whose lute hangs now
High on the laurel tree,
Feels that the cypress's dark bough
A fitter meed would be:
And still with weariness and wo
The fatal gift is won;
Many a radiant head lies low,
Ere half its race be run.