Classic Poem

Upon his staff an aged pilgrim leant,
And towards a rapid stream his steps he bent;
Then sat him down upon its sterile side,
And gazed and gazed upon its passing tide.
I saw a tear-drop gather in his eye,
His age, his tears, called forth my sympathy;
" They are not here, " he murmured, " no, not here,
They are in heaven — the friends I loved so dear —
On death's cold stream I saw them pass away,
And now, methinks, they chide my long delay.
A few more days, and I shall cease to roam,
Oh, happy thought! I too am going home. "
The pilgrim ceased — methought a boat drew near —
The sight his fainting spirit seemed to cheer;
I saw an angel wave him to her side —
He gazed a moment on the swelling tide —
" Fear not, " she whispered, " though the billows foam,
Thy prayer is heard and God hath called thee home. "
The waves rolled on, I felt their icy breath —
The stream he launched on was the stream of death.