Classic Poem

Not to the lanes of England,
Cathedral-aisles of France,
Or up the mountain-hollows
Where Alpine torrents glance;

Not in the storied cities
And old highways of life,
Where shadowy generations
Have passed in song and strife;

Where Raphael hath painted,
Or Socrates was born,
Or prophets once were cradled
In Nazareths of scorn;—

But on more wonderful journeys
Than any the pilgrims know,
Our traveller has been roving,—
The book in his heart can show

He has voyaged with the Captains
Who sail the seas of thought,
Daring with them the tempest,
Hailing with them the port.

And many a dreamer's island
Has added to his lore
The hope that made it Patmos,—
One heavenly vision more.

In lands men deemed unholy
He gleaned from every clod
Some treasure-trove, revealing
Horizons new of God.

Till Heathenesse grew homelike;
While the traveller's tale was still
Of a Ceaseless Care, whose presence
Out-worketh good from ill.

And unto sacred places,
The Palestines within,
By pathways of the Spirit,
Our traveller hath been.

Along the silent beaches
That men call Birth and Death,
Rimming our fields of summer,
Giving us ocean-breath,

He paces as a watcher
Watching the tidal sweep;
And his greeting is full of music
Caught from the central deep.

He knows the founts of laughter;
Where psalms in mothers rise;
How purpose dawns in manhood,
And love in maiden eyes.

In still lanes of confession,
In solemn aisles of prayer,
On Alps of high endeavor,—
We meet him everywhere!

The others see but Europe,
And go as feet may fare;
Our pilgrim, still out-sailing,
Sees many an Outre-Mer!