Classic Poem

THE world is a prison old,
And we are captives all;
For the tyrant Time, he reigns sublime,
And holdeth us in thrall.

A restless multitude,
We wander to and fro,
By hopes allured, that unsecured,
Still lead from woe to woe.

With masks of ghastly mirth,
Some hide an inward care;
With griefs unknown, some weep alone,
And waste with mute despair!

The beautiful and brave,
Console us but a day:
Though fondly nurst, they fail us first,
And soonest pass away.

Momently opens and shuts
The black, sepulchral door,
And the blessed souls that go that way,
Return to us no more.

No more to the haunts of pain,
And the cells of Sin and Fear,
But walk in white, in a purer light,
And a finer atmosphere!

The warden named Death,
He sitteth by the gate,
And guardeth well, for good or ill,
The secret keys of fate

Nor pity nor remorse
That iron heart can move;
Yet sometime he will beckon me,
To follow those I love.

What though God's jewels star
This azure roof of ours —
This verdant floor be sprinkled o'er
With miracles of flowers?

Weak types of glories hid!
For grander scenes we sigh;
We pine for stars that never pale,
And flowers that never die!

For we know there is a land,
Hesperian and fair,
Whereof in dreams we catch such gleams,
As bring us half-way there!

With endless change of phrase,
Our sad appeals ascend;
Oh! not inured, though long immured,
When shall our bondage end.