Classic Poem

Look on the sky, all broad and fair;
Sons of the earth, what see ye there?
The rolling clouds to feast thine eye
With golden burnish and Tyrian dye;
The rainbow's arch, the sun of noon,
The stars of eve, the midnight moon:
These, these to the coldest gaze are bright
They are marked by all for their glory and light;
But their color and rays shed a richer beam
As they shine to illumine the poet's dream
Children of pleasure, how ye dote
On the dulcet harp and tuneful note —
Holding your breath to drink the strain,
Till throbbing joy dissolves in pain.
There's not a spell aught else can fling
Like the warbling voice and the silver string;
But a music to other ears unknown,
Of deeper thrill and sweeter tone,
Comes in the wild and gurgling stream
To the poet rapt in his blissful dream.

The earth may have its buried stores
Of lustrous jewels and coveted ores;
Ye may gather hence the marble stone
To house a monarch or wall a throne;
Its gold may fill the grasping hand,
Its gems may flash in the sceptre wand;
But purer treasures and dearer things
Than the coins of misers or trappings of kings —
Gifts and hoards of a choicer kind
Are garnered up in the poet's mind.

The mother so loves that the world holds none
To match with her own fair lisping one;
The wedded youth will nurture his bride
With all the fervor of passion and pride;
Hands will press and beings blend
Till the kindliest ties knit friend to friend.
Oh! the hearts of the many can truly burn,
They can fondly cherish and closely yearn;
But the flame of love is more vivid and strong
That kindles within a child of song.

Life hath much of grief and pain
To sicken the breast and tire the brain;
All brows are shaded by sorrow's cloud,
All eyes are dimmed, all spirits bowed;
Sighs will break from the care-worn breast,
Till death is asked as a pillow of rest;
But the gifted one, oh! who can tell
How his pulses beat and his heart's strings swell?
His secret pangs, his throbbing wo
None but himself and his God can know.

Crowds may join in the festive crew,
Their hours may be glad and their pleasures true
They may gaily carouse and fondly believe
There's no greater bliss for the soul to receive.
But ask the poet if he will give
His exquisite moments like them to live;
And the scornful smile on his lips will play,
His eye will flash with exulting ray —
For he knows and feels that to him is given
The joys that yield a glimpse of heaven.

Oh! there's something holy about each spot
Where the weary sleep and strife comes not;
And the good and great ones passed away
Have worshippers still o'er their soulless clay;
But the dust of the bard is most hallowed and dear,
'Tis moistened and blest by the warmest tear.
The prayers of the worthiest breathe his name,
Mourning his loss and guarding his fame;
And the truest homage the dead can have
Is rendered up at the poet's grave.