Classic Poem

I.

When sorrow sets around thy wayward path,
And many troubles follow in her train;
When dire mischance it seems will never wane,
And life for thee no sort of pleasure hath;
When friendship proves as frail as any lath,
Snaps in a trice and leaves the dull slow pain.
The aching heart that ne'er may hope again —
And drear despair seems life's sole aftermath,
There is an outlet from thy dreary creed;
There is a pasture on which thou may'st feed;
There is a never-failing friend at hand.
Turn to thy shelves and choose a goodly tome,
A mighty mind of ancient Greece or Rome,
Perchance a bard of thine own native land.

II.

Then may'st thou leave all troubles far behind,
And soar unto the regions of the blest;
Then be thy body, mind and soul, at rest,
Oblivious of the tempest and the wind
That howls around the shipwreck of thy mind.
For, by the thraldom of that tome possessed,
Despair hath lost its potence to molest,
And not an inlet can thy troubles find.
Oh, blessings be on every poet head!
With wreaths of joy may each be garlanded,
And happiness for ever be their meed!
Who for us men hath wrought so great a joy,
Devoid of all adulterate alloy —
A genuine soil whereon the soul may feed.