Classic Poem

If in the Student's eye, this Yankee vein
Of pure utility is but pure pain,
If he shall ask for august Palace wall,
Or figured arch, or learned College hall;
If he seek Landscape gardens midst those trees,
Where hammers trip it like the hum of bees,
Instead of corn-land for the shaven Lawn,
Or one sane man who will his life adorn,
Not a dry rank of Grocers, or of shops,
Or women sometime conversant with mops,
He asks for that Wachusett does not see,
A watch-tower guarding pure utility.
Why does the Student question what there is?
Grant it not Grecian, it is surely his;
Born in New England in her useful mood,
Let him not feel as if in solitude;
The child of railroads, Factories, and farms,
Let him not stand beside them with closed arms.
Dwells not within the Locomotive's heart
One of the purest ministries of Art,
Can Poet feign more airy character,
This burdened train few drops of water stir.
Hear how it thunders down the iron road,
Invulnerable horse, who drags a load,
No matter what its shape, or weight, to him,
Gallops by noon, and speechless midnight dim,
Careless across the trembling, sunken moors,
Under the mountains, past the people's doors,
Through forest-thickets where the Partridge drums,
Along the sea-beach where the salt spray comes,
Hurled by the exercise of human thought,
The man-created beast shows matter nought.
Within his magic mind, a dreamy boy
Converts this iron to a living toy,
Shuts in a moment power of distances,
Bids granite dance, and iron axles wince.
Who cares what is the weather, good or bad,
Within the Rail-car pleasant can be had,—
Who cares where is the city, by his door,
Rolls the swift engine, circling countries o'er.