Classic Poem

Ho! Eighteen Hundred Seventy-Eight, what means this concourse here?
Whereat we are by Father Time commanded to appear,
Your predecessors twenty-five, part of the long array,
Which waits for you to join it, at the close of your brief day? —
We come from that dim land, the Past, thick-peopled with dead years,
Which, born with smiles, grew old with cares, and died with sobs and tears:
We come, as unto aged men the memories come, that bring
Past joys to give delight, past griefs again the heart to sting.
Guests welcome or unwelcome we, according as we bear
Remembrances, to Serf or King, of happiness or care,
Of joys or sorrows, weal or woe, of honour or of shame,
For which some glorify the Past some bitterly defame.

VOICES, AFAR OFF . North —

The Past is the Fate of the Present;
Is a Realm no change that knows; S OUTH —
Is the Lawgiver of the Future,
The source of its joys and woes;

E AST — The dead Years are diademed Monarchs,
Whom the Years that come after obey;
W EST — And yesterday is as remote from us,
As the Stars are far away.