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Forever extinct seems the age of classical poetry,
With all its cheers from caves, cottages, marble domes and temples,

When now a country honors not classical bards:
O Hugh MacDiarmid, Petrarch, Ono No Komachi, Thomas Chatterton, Robert Browning, James Macpherson, Christina Rossetti, Theophile Gautier, Gavrila Romanovich Derzhavin,
 
Beside their essence and dignity, little gifts grow dim,
While their Fame and Prestige fight for the attention of Utmost Veneration 

O Scotland, Italy, Japan, England, France and Russia,
Why pursue these struggling pioneers,
 Trailblazers who blazed the path for others yet to be;
And dug through thankless years 
And found the temples they never saw
With sordid cares?
And deny their precious works applause?

O from Classics was birthed Contemporary Art 
She, Contemporary Art like Eve, formed from the rib of Adam- Classics 
Just like Cervantes, a contemporary of Shakespeare, a man of the Classics 

But thou tell the young men :
Now is the age of Modernity
Now bloated Contemporary Art rules Classics in Galleries and Theatres 
Read not the works of those Classical Minstrels,
They are bards, like the Painters, who strove in vain,
O glorious Doom, to share even their Art’s disgrace 
Nor wrote just a line to please the vulgar man

Ah, can gold ever survive without its ore?

 O you countries who bring a wreath for martyrs 
Above their graves elated threnodies flow,
And tell their tales to thy sons and daughters:
These brave ones fought and bled 
So our country may live!

While the graves of these poor bards are carelessly looked
And thrown upon them dust and spit,

I promise thou that some time the golden glory of Classical Arts shall shine once more for men
Far in the future, like Walter Malone, I see Classical City reared to Art;
I see its cloud-encircled turrets blaze,
As splendid as the sunset’s burning heart.

And if thou still see these past bards not as kings and queens of poetry,
Surrounded by the pomp of spears and shields ,
But patient peasants, suffering scorn and wrong,
To labor in their people ,
Then hear what Walter Malone said:
“And if a lowly minstrel dries one tear,
Or soothes one humble human heart in pain,
Be sure his homely verse to God is dear,
And not one stanza has been sung in vain.

So when they give their humble words of praise,
Their simple lines and favor in His sight,
And when He loves to hear their little lays,
Rebuke not, for His spirit sayeth, “Write.”


By Jamuel Yaw Asare
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