Classic Poem

Long have I gazed upon all lovely things,
Until my soul was melted into song, —
Melted with love, till from its thousand springs
The stream of adoration, swift and strong,
Swept in its ardour, drowning brain and tongue,
Till what I most would say was borne away unsung.

The brook is silent when it mirrors most
Whate'er is grand or beautiful above;
The billow which would woo the flowery coast
Dies in the first expression of its love;
And could the bard consign to living breath
Feelings too deep for thought, the utterance were death!

The starless heavens at noon are a delight;
The clouds a wonder in their varying play,
And beautiful when from their mountainous height
The lightning's hand illumes the wall of day: —
The noisy storm bursts down, and passing brings
The rainbow poised in air on unsubstantial wings.

But most I love the melancholy night —
When with fixed gaze I single out a star,
A feeling floods me with a tender light —
A sense of an existence from afar,
A life in other spheres of love and bliss,
Communion of true souls — a loneliness in this!

There is a sadness in the midnight sky —
An answering fulness in the heart and brain,
Which tells the spirit's vain attempt to fly,
And occupy those distant worlds again.
At such an hour Death's were a loving trust,
If life could then depart in its contempt of dust.

It may be that this deep and longing sense
Is but the prophecy of life to come;
It may be that the soul in going hence
May find in some bright star its promised home;
And that the Eden lost for ever here
Smiles welcome to me now from yon suspended sphere.

There is a wisdom in the light of stars,
A worldless lore which summons me away;
This ignorance belongs to earth, which bars
The spirit in these darkened walls of clay,
And stifles all the soul's aspiring breath; —
True knowledge only dawns within the gates of Death.

Imprisoned thus, why fear we then to meet
The angel who shall ope the dungeon door,
And break these galling fetters from our feet,
To lead us up from Time's benighted shore?
Is it for love of this dark cell of dust,
Which, tenantless, awakes but horror and disgust?

Long have I mused upon all lovely things:
But thou, oh Death! art lovelier than all;
Thou sheddest from thy recompensing wings
A glory which is hidden by the pall —
The excess of radiance falling from thy plume
Throws from the gates of Time a shadow on the tomb.