Classic Poem

Our house, that long in darkness dwelt,
And long in silence, day by day,
Before the mountain snows could melt,
While yet the world was bleak and gray,
Received an impulse from the play
Of sudden fingers on the strings,
That made the new-born meadows gay
With magic touch, as 't were the Spring's.

The melancholy frog no more
Shall pipe his burden, twanging shrill;
The oriole gives his matins o'er,
No song-bird now hath any skill;
Even that reproachful whippoorwill
That stirred such memories in my heart
Is hushed, — yet comes, a listener still,
Nightly, to hear Cordelia's art.

O virgins of the silver lute!
O goddess of the golden chord!
And thou great master of the flute,
Pan, of the reeds acknowledged lord!
Troop hither, and your best reward
For your old music, in the days
When young Apollo was your king,
Shall be to peep from yonder bays,
And hear your latest scholar sing.