Classic Poem

Best solace of my lonely hours!
Whose tones can never tire,
Oh, how I thrill beneath thy powers, —
Sweet Spirit of the Lyre!
On streamlet's marge, or mountain's steep,
In wild, umbrageous forests deep,
Or by my midnight fire —
Where'er my vagrant footsteps be,
My soul can find a spell in thee!

Thy home is in the human mind,
And in the human breast,
With thoughts unfettered as the wind,
And feelings unexpressed;
With joys and griefs, with hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles, with sorrow's tears,
Thou art a constant guest:
And oh, how many feel thy flame,
Without a knowledge of thy name!

Beauty and grandeur give thee birth,
And echo in thy strain —
The stars of heaven, the flowers of earth,
The wild and wondrous main:
With Nature thou art always found
In every shape, in every sound,
Calm, tempest, sun, and rain; —
Yes! Thou hast ever been to me
An intellectual ecstasy!

When Poverty's dark pennons wave
Exulting o'er my head, —
When Hope's best efforts fail to save
My soul from inward dread, —
When Woman's soothing voice no more
Can charm with fondness that before
Such joyous comfort shed;
Thy smile can mitigate my doom
And fling a ray athwart the gloom.

When sickness bends my spirit low,
And dims my sunken eye,
And, wrestling with my subtle foe,
I breathe the bitter sigh; —
Again I seek thee — once again
To weave a meek, imploring strain
To Mercy's source on high!
And — oh, the magic of thy tone! —
I feel as though my pangs were gone!

When light on expectation's wing
My joyous thoughts arise,
Elate with thee I soar, and sing,
And seem to sweep the skies:
Though disappointment's voice of fear
Sternly arrests my wild career,
And expectation dies;
Yet thou, unchanged, art with me still,
Wreathing with flowers the thorns of ill.

Misfortune's blighting breath may kill
Hope's blossoms on the tree;
Mild sorceress! it cannot chill
My cherished love for thee!
When Death put forth his withering hand,
And snatched, of my domestic band,
The darling from my knee,
Thou didst not fail to breathe a lay
Of sorrow o'er its sinless clay.

I loved thee when a very child —
For every song was dear;
In youth, when Shakespeare's — wood-notes wild —
First charmed my ravish'd ear;
In manhood, too, when Byron's hand
Swept the deep chords, and every land
Enraptured turned to hear;
And oh, when age hath touched my brow,
Still may I cling to thee, as now!

The lonely swan's expiring breath
In mournful music flows;
He sings his requiem of death,
Though racked with painful throes;
Sweet Poesy! let such be mine, —
The calm, harmonious decline
To earth's serene repose!
May thy last murmurs still be there,
And tremble through my dying prayer!