Classic Poem

Far back, when I was young, I had a dream
Of buried Nations; to my eyes did seem
An ancient City, wide with ruins strown,
A soil that in late times was richly sown
With Beauty's increase; it was happy there,
The landscape smiled, and love breathed in the air.
Then in the middle of this City old
A brave Church stood, whose dome was high and bold;
Far fell the light across the echoing floor,
And on the ear the wavy organs pour
Their rolling billows, as the thunders sigh,
When o'er the hills the sudden tempests die;
So, in cathedrals green of tufted pine,
The weeping wind plays harmonies divine.
And entered there to me the spirits great,
Who rendered Art their joy and best estate;
I heard wise voices speak in later days,
The repetition of those Artists' praise.

Dreams! I revere them; may we not dispel
The shadowy visions that within us dwell!
Bright shapes and fiery forms, be those our care,
And a gay landscape float around them fair,
Have solid gold for ceiling of their earth,
And in the dust a planetary worth!
Let the Soul journey in the land of dream,
And never may the day, with flattering beam,
Look in and light that land; let us see Rome,
As she stands firm within the Fancy's home.

For never on such shapes the sun shall set
As rise within thee; all things else forget, —
Thy friend, thy work, whatever thou dost know, —
Let all decease, and keep thy faith below,
In the austerer cities of thy soul,
Founded where winds and rains have no control;
Their architecture ribbed with subtlest thought,
Their streets that only phantom feet have sought;
There let the ruins crumble, the decay,
Like distant landscapes, smoothed by parting day.
There build thy churches, as St. Peter's high,
There Raphael paint beneath the inward sky,
And the brave Romans, — they were giant men,
Caesar and Scipio; may they live again,
Stalk through thy inward Forum! — seek no more;
The sands of Europe gleam on Salem's shore.

For if thou art an angel, from the land
Of crystal Heaven, and in thy right hand
Hast the old power to form all things that are,
Can weigh the mote, or whirl the new-born star,
Until it poise itself, and roll in duty,
And thou art fed, like roses, with that Beauty
Which nicer fabrics from the air may steal, —
If thou like Lovers in their trance might feel, —
Still never should thou touch the flowing stream
On which there sailed at morning thy sweet Dream,
Saw nations rise like meadows from the snow,
Saw ceremonies that no courts can show.
Revere thy Dream, seek not the outer part;
The true description reads within the heart.

Dry pages! who may turn you gaily o'er,
Hoping for wine? — forbear, it cannot pour;
Cobwebs are in the measure, and the spring
Is choked with leaves; no birds about it sing,
For Winter's frost has fallen o'er the pool,
And flowers, and trees, and sands obey his rule,
And weary people speak with husky cold,
Dispute like crickets, in the frozen mould.
But we must search, and toil, and grope our way;
Shines not the sun for Students every day.
Think! if there is plain need of Virtue here,
Thy native Wit shall sweet the atmosphere.