Classic Poem

A patch of garden by the river-side,
With seats where children cluster; to and fro
Upon the stream the fretting steamboats go,
And barges this or that way with the tide.
A Statue, with lined forehead and sad-eyed,
Rear'd 'mid the walk, sits gazing on the flow,
Beholding not its freightage, swift or slow, —
Marking but how the eternal waters glide.

Time is not. Though the wasting hours are toll'd
From this church-tower, which spoke to him of old,
When the dim street hard-by his footsteps trod.
Alike the morn, loud noon, or twilight pale,
Or when night comes, with infinite peace, to veil
The sad eyes gazing on the darkened flood.