Classic Poem

Thou wast the earliest monument
Of what in former days
Had once been deem'd magnificent,
Which met my boyish gaze
And first emotions kindled then,
Now seem to start to life again,
As thou, when morning's rays
First strike upon thine ancient head,
All grey and ivy-garlanded.

Through such a gate as this perchance,
Methought, once issued free,
All I have read of in romance,
And, reading, half could see;
Robed priests advancing one by one,
And banners gleaming in the sun,
And knights of chivalry:
Until I almost seem'd to hear
The sound of trumpet thrilling near.

“'Twas idlesse all”—such flights as please
A castle-building boy,
Whom Nature early taught to seize
Far more than childish toy,—
The forms of fancy, free to range
O'er rhyme and record old and strange,
And with romantic joy
Who even then was wont alone
To dream adventures of his own.

Alas! the morning of the soul
Has heavenly brightness in it;
And as the mind's first mists unroll,
Makes years of every minute—
Years of ideal joy:—life's path
At first such dewy freshness hath,
'Tis rapture to begin it;
But soon, too soon, the dew-drops dry,
Or glisten but in sorrow's eye.

It boots but little—smiles and tears,
Even from beauty beaming,
Must fade alike with fleeting years,
Like phantoms from the dreaming:
And never can they be so bright
As when life's sweet and dawning light
On both by turns was gleaming;
Unless it be when, unforgot,
We feel “they were and they are not.”