Classic Poem

A FRIEND , who in the South now waits
Until the Sesame
Of peace shall cleave his prison-gates,
Thus spake to me of thee:

" He dwells in Britain's fairest isle,
Within an ivy-kirtled pile,
Gray as its Saxon age;
Mid flower-brocaded turfs that lie
On chalk-cliffs, like the minstrelsy
That broidereth his page.

" He dwells afar from Caerleon
Where Arthur's dawning glories shone,
Nor near to Camelot;
Though in his walks, the spectral throng
Of Paladins applaud his song,
While weeps Sir Launcelot.

" 'Twas there I heard his silver voice,
In spells his pen had cast, rejoice,
And saw its tones evoke
The calm procession of his Dream
Of Women Fair, until the stream
Of song by night was broke.

" Next day at even's favouring tide
I left the Isle; and by his side,
To speed the parting guest,
Stood she, who held in either hand
A flaxen child with golden band
Clasped round a crimson vest.

" As on them burned day's orange glow,
My fancy pictured Ivanhoe,
When love had crowned his joys;
Rowena in the bloom of life,
The mother, still with beauty rife,
Of his two Saxon boys. "

Moss-rose Pendennis, when he cast
His petals on our Northern blast,
To scent its wintry breath,
Swore thou alone of living men,
Within his widely-reaching ken,
Would'st long survive thy death.

Another came, whose sparkling glow
Might vie with the inspiring flow
Of Rhone or fairy Rhine,
And vowed thou wert no anchorite,
For once he saw thee half the night
The cup with garlands twine.

Two portraits of thee near me lie:
In rapture on the Eastern sky
The younger seems to gaze;
The other of the Western sun
In autumn, ere the day is done,
Reflects the saddening rays.

But not thy living fame nor face,
Though tongue or bust their image trace,
Before my soul arise;
I see thee as in after days
Posterity shall with his lays
The minstrel canonize.