Classic Poem

The temple was a ruin'd heap,
With moss and weeds o'ergrown,
And there the old Seer stood entranced
Beside the altar-stone:
Time's broken hour-glass at his feet
In mould'ring fragments lay;
And tombstones, whose old epitaphs
Were eaten all away.

He pointed ever and anon,
His gaze was fixt on air,
While thus he talk'd to shadowy forms,
Which seem'd to hover there:

“On, on to regions lone
The generations go;
They march along with mingled song
Of hope, of joy, and woe.
On, on to regions lone,
For there's no tarrying here;
The hoary past is join'd at last
By all iTheld so dear.

“There, there, on edge of air,
How fleetly do they pass:
I see them all, both great and small,
Like pictures in a glass.
Long, long this crowding, motley throng,
Of ev'ry creed and clime,
With hopes and fears, with smiles and tears,
Of the young and the olden time.

“Round, round on this earthly mound,
The laden ages reel;
No creak, no sound, but ceaseless round,
To Time's eternal wheel.

“There, there, with long grey hair,
Are patriarchs of our race;
A glory crowns each hoary head,
They pass with solemn pace.
Earth, earth, there were men of worth
When they were in their prime,
With less of art, and more of heart,
A happy golden time.

“There, there are ladies fair
That danced in lordly hall;
The minstrel grey, whose simple lay
Brought joy to one and all.
Fleet, fleet were your fairy feet,
And ye knew the joy of tears,
While minstrels wove old tales of love,
With hopes, with doubts, with fears.

“There, there, still fresh and fair,
I see them march along,
The bowmen good, the gay green wood,
I hear their jocund song.
See, see how the green oak tree
With shouts they circle in;
The stakes are set, the champions met,
The merry games begin.

“Round, round, on their earthly mound,
The laden ages reel;
No creak, no sound, to the ceaseless round
Of Time's eternal wheel.

“Hold, hold, ye were barons bold!
I know by the garb ye wear,
The lofty head, the stately tread,
The trusty blades ye bear.
Where, where are your mansions rare,
The lordly halls ye built?
Gone, gone, how little known
Your glory or your guilt!

“Away, away, as to the fray,
Ah! there they madly rush,
And in their path of woe and wrath
A dark, deep, purple blush!
Here, here, like Autumn sear,
The hoary palmers come;
Their tales they tell of what befell—
The list'ning groups are dumb.

“Round, round, on their earthly mound,
The laden ages reel;
No creak, no sound, but ceaseless round,
To Time's eternal wheel.

“Lo! lo! what splendid woe
Your rearward host reveals!
It marches there with its golden care,
To sounds of steam and wheels.
Speed! speed! oh, Guile and Greed
Are sure a monstrous birth;
Let wan Despair weave fabrics rare,
And Gold be God on earth.

“Oh! oh! what sigh of woe
Is from its bosom roll'd!
What faces peer, like winter drear,
'Mid the glitter and the gold
Still, still, 'mid all this ill
Are souls with touch sublime,
Who nobly strive to keep alive
Hopes of a happier time.

“Round, round, on their earthly mound,
The laden ages reel;
No creak, no sound, but ceaseless round,
To Time's eternal wheel.

“Hail! hail! ye shadows pale,
For ye were men of thought;
The crags were steep, the mines were deep,
Where painfully ye wrought.
Speak! speak! why your secret keep?
This mystery I'd know—
Say, what is breath, and life, and death?
And whither do we go?

“Still, still, no word ye will
Vouchsafe my greedy ear;
The crags are steep, the mines are deep,
And I can only hear:
“‘On, on, ev'ry age has gone,
Its burden on its back;
Despite our will, for good or ill,
We follow in the track.’

“Round, round, on their earthly mound,
The laden ages reel;
No creak, no sound, but ceaseless round,
To Time's eternal wheel.”