Classic Poem

My harp upon the willows is not hung;
Else had I anguish, dreading to forget
The melody that soundeth sweetly yet,
Albeit in idle hearing idly sung.
Soul, if thou skillest aught of Sion's tongue,
The more thou chide at Babylon's vain fret,
The more thou Salem's strain must rebeget,
For Sion lives where Sion's lyre is strung.
To willowed brook or transitory breeze
Trust nothing; not on such impends the weight
Of duty on thyself divinely bound;
Thy Mother's songs, of old thy lullabies,
Not only to revere but renovate,
Not only to remember but resound.