Classic Poem

'Tis far away, dear friend, 'tis far away
Where we were born and nurtured, and grew up.
Thither to-day, as this new gate of time
Swings on its noiseless hinges slowly back,
Through the far vista of our boyish years,
Look with a saddened eye, ay! once more look,
Ere through these portals we pass idly on,
To see the coming painted on the wall.

I see a grand procession of fine hopes,
Each with his face wrapped in a sable stole,
And turned away from me their once bright eyes,
All mutely gazing on the snowy ground.
Then one,—still farther down,—this mournful troop
They carry on a bier hung round with frost.
The light is like a dying person's eye;
For O! our passèd years shall make us weep,
Nor shall our boyish years live but in dreams.

They say our home is in a better land;
That we are pilgrims here, and on this march
We shall stop never, but with soilèd feet
Track the hard pavement with our dusty prints.
But yet to journey homeward were most fair,
And, no one knowing, burst upon their sight;—
Thou art come!—Indeed is't thou, from the far land?—
That joy was in their hearts. And as the lake's
Calm surface is at once waked into life
By one slight move, so should my sudden sight
Arouse their peaceful feelings. So will't be
When some pure man makes of this world a home,
All home,—both on new-years and birth-days home,
And all the people laugh within their hearts,
That this is city of God, both then and now.