Classic Poem

BY WILLIAM WALLACE .

Harp of Eternity! — thy strings
Ten thousand thousand years have told,
Since o'er thy frame the mystic wings
Of time unwearied roll'd;
And still from that mysterious throne
Thy song, magnificent and lone,
Peals nightly as of old,
When Chaldea's Shepherd bent his ear
To catch the music of each sphere.

How fondly gazed that old man round
The dread magnificence above,
Woo'd by the anthem's mellow sound,
Breathing of seraph love;
Whose brooding wings shed deathless bliss
O'er pensile orb and starr'd abyss,
Like Heaven's own holy dove —
For he, on those high rocks, had caught
Beams from the Spirit-land of thought;

And heard thy music, mighty Lyre,
Struck by the giant hand of Time,
Rolling amid yon worlds of fire,
Their choral march sublime.
How leap'd his heart — how swell'd his soul —
To hear those awful numbers roll
In one eternal chime;
And dream that, freed from Earth's dark sod,
Already he communed with God!

Bard of the stars! Thou led'st the dance
Of thrice ten thousand thousand spheres,
Wheeling in their delirious trance
Through the unnumbered years.
Unmoved alike 'mid life or death —
The storm's career — the tempest's breath,
Or folly — crime and tears —
Still! still behind those cloudy bars,
Glitters the Poet of the Stars!

Thou art alone! — At twilight dim,
And in the Night's transparent noon,
Solemnly weaving thy wild hymn,
And solitary tune,
Like some sad Hermit, — whose lone heart
Would from all earthly splendors part,
Lured by their glare too soon,
And 'mid the Desert's silent gloom
Wait uncomplainingly its doom.

Alone! oh, sacred ONE , — dost thou
From that star-cinctur'd hall, behold
Sorrows which scathe the human brow,
And griefs that burn untold,
Save to the night-winds drooping by —
Like mourners journeying from the sky —
Coldly and dark unroll'd?
Vainly we ask, or low, or loud,
Bright Minstrel of the star and cloud.

Sound on, oh mighty Harp! Thy strain
Comes floating sadly on the night —
For we may ne'er behold again
Thy pure and sacred light,
But in the cold insensate tomb,
Rest all unknowingly our doom;
While thou, intensely bright,
Shalt pour thy glorious music still,
Alike unscath'd by death or ill.

Sound on! But those sweet harps of earth,
Whose strings lie shattered, cold and lone,
Shall yet, restored by godlike worth,
Resume their godlike tone;
While thou must be, oh! ancient lyre,
Destroyed in Nature's funeral pyre,
And broken on thy throne —
Where they — undimm'd by earth-born jars —
May lead, like thee, the dance of stars!

Oh, glorious hope! Oh, thought divine!
Soul! fired by the high-promised bliss,
Kneel at thy God's eternal shrine,
And breathe thy thanks for this!
Harp! lift once more thy joyous song —
Bear its — oh, bear its notes along,
O'er earth and far abyss!
Hail with a smile Death's gloomy frown, —
Spirit! he brings thy brightest crown!