Classic Poem

In the great days men heard afar the clarions of Hope rejoice:
The hearts of men were shaken as reeds by the wind of a Voice.
But now the roll of muffled drums drowns 'mid the last Retreat
The wild fanfare of perishing hopes, the tramp of passing feet.

The winds of heaven are banners lost, are pennons of dismay;
The innumerous legion of the sun toils on in disarray;
The moon that carries freight of gold to ransom forth the morn
Sails desolate beneath a myriad starry eyes of scorn.

Wild rhetoric, yes: but who shall say what metaphors of pain
Are fit for the funeral dirge of a Republic slain?
High hopes, faiths, dreams, great passions, aspirations,
Prove but the trodden, useless, bitter dust of weary nations!

That which was great is fallen, that which was high is low:
The rising star has sunk again, but in a blood-red glow:
The hundred thousand souls that died before the golden prime
Did well, for it is well to miss the Ironies of Time.

Faith, Honour, Love, the Noble and the True,
These lofty words are pawns of an ignoble crew
How better far to light the Torch with flames of cheap desire
Than thus to mock the eyes of man with stolen fire!

There is no State broad-based enough upon the People's heart
That some day may not hunted be by the people's dart:
The rebel nerves, the rebel lusts, the rebel hounds of life —
If these be loosened from the whip they turn to fratricidal strife.

Is this the end of all high dreams above thrones trampled under?
Is this the tinsel chorus left after the noble thunder?
'Twere better, then, than thus to live, thus forfeit high renown,
To be true men, and free, " beneath the shadow of a Crown " !