Classic Poem

Not the soft tones to lull a wine-drows'd ear,
Or honey drop on tongue of sweet-fed brain;
Not the thin strains that school girls like to hear,
Dreaming the while in fancied love's mock pain;
Nor tripping notes to physic sadness' tear,
Nor throbbing ones to make it flow again.
Not these the trivial limits of thy skill,
Homer of Music! But when thou dost fill
The wind-devouring pipe, or touch the string,
Then the poor homesick soul wakes with a thrill
Of rapture, soaring on thy music's wing
From earth, its land of exile dark and chill,
To dwell a space in its own realms, and bring
Thence joys to make earth's life a happier thing.