Classic Poem

A truce all lamentable cries!
Elysium's festal shouts arise
And drown each note of woe—
The rapturous Elysian life
Skims gently past all worldly strife,
As streams through pastures flow.

With her benign and youthful mien
There hovers o'er the ample scene
An everlasting May:
The hours escape in golden dreams,
The soul to boundless limits streams,
Truth tears the veil away.

Here an unbroken strain of bliss
Wells undulating through the heart.
The very name of grief we miss,
And “Rapture” stands for sorrow's smart.

Here the far-travelled pilgrim's limbs are laid,
Weary, beneath the cool and rustling shade,
And for all time his burden here he leaves.
The sickle falls from the unheeding swain,
And, yielding to the harp's entrancing strain,
He sees in dreams th' already garnered sheaves.

He, whose tall ensigns woke the thunder's peal,
Whose ears were hardened to the clash of steel,
At whose stern tread the mountains bowed in fear,
Sleeps calmly now beside the rippling ghyll,
Which babbles o'er these stones with silver trill,
Forgetful of his fury-dealing spear.

Here loving pairs their faithful ardour plead,
Embracing on the emerald velvet mead,
By gentle zephyrs fondled and caressed;
Here Love at length its chaplet shall attain,
And free from death and its attendant pain,
For ever celebrate the bridal feast.