Classic Poem

I know not if thy charm it be,
Or Nature's charm, reveal'd in thee;
Whether thy face, as now I view it,
Is thine,—or hers that's shining through it:
But this I know—whate'er the art
That wins me, thou hast won my heart!
And therefore, though my old guitar
Has strings that were,—not strings that are,—
Once more, ere yet its tune be spent,
I touch that ancient instrument,—
In praise of truth and beauty blent!

Through the red glare, the scorching light,
The din, the havoc, and the blight
Of clamorous wrath and hideous haste,
That make this life one dreary waste,
Thy voice, of Music's soul complete,
Is ever tender, low, and sweet,—
To make the frantic tumult cease,
And bless me with the balm of peace!
And so for thee I breathe a sigh;
For this I love thee,—far or nigh,—
Or else, or else—I know not why!