Classic Poem

The God, the Hero, and the Sage,
Nor sceptre, sword, nor myrtle crown,
Nor e'en a drop have handed down
Of bubbling blood to this our age.

Caught in the marble or the brass,
They smile or frown their joy or grief
From statue, coin, or bas-relief,
Which, though in fashion they surpass.

The chiselled thoughts of modern days,
Bring to our eyes but traits of men,
Who, like ourselves, on earth have been
The shrines of Life's ephemeral blaze.

But deeds and words embalmed in song,
In after ages—like the seed
From royal mummies drawn to feed
The tribes which Egypt's river throng—

Dilate fresh hearts and sublimate
The lowliest blood with flames heroic,
And fortify with valour stoic
The weak against the storms of fate.

Yes, as the shivered chord's complaint
Floats onward through the murmuring air,
Until some unison as fair
Responds into its whisper faint,—

So, when it severs earth's last thread,
The soul pursues its journeying,
And swells, on fleet and tireless wing,
The shadowy army of the dead;

Until it chance a kindred chord
Within some brother's sleeping heart
To wake, and its own life impart
To sage's lips or warrior's sword.

Napoleon fought with Caesar's blade,
Dante was god-like Homer's son,
Timoleon prompted Washington,
And Paul stout Luther's fierce crusade.

Nor in such mighty souls alone
Do kindred spirits breathe their fire;
The humblesTheart's untutored lyre
From shadowy voices takes its tone.

Until they sound, bend every string
Thy hand can grasp, with zealous care,
Though from thy lyre but hoarse despair
Fate's ruthless sweep at first should wring.

Strain on! until thy spirit's Sire
Awake that chord of happier fate,
Whose jubilance shall modulate
Thy woe to joy's celestial choir.