Classic Poem

The harp, whose angel tones beguiled
My soul to transport, when a child;
The harp, that with unchanging truth
Has been the solace of my youth,
And lent its seraph-voice to bless
Those days of dreamy loneliness,
When in the silence of the wood,
When neath the mountain's hermit tree,
On the cragged heath's wide solitude,
That harp was all the world to me.
And though my new-born spirit then,
Strange to the crowded seats of men,
Knew not what forms of heaven's pure mould,
Mingling with those impure and cold,
Were cast on earth's wide, novel seat,
Where Paradise and misery meet,
It told of bosoms still unknown,
That throbb'd with feelings like my own;
And gave me, with prelusive power,
The dreams of life's advancing hour,
Ere yet 'twere mine, in truth, to know
The world of bliss — the world of woe,
That every gentler heart must trace,
Which loves, and seeks its kindred race.
The joy, the smiles, the tumult sweet,
When souls of love and lightning meet;
The pang, the cloud, the dying pain,
When they are forced apart again;
Life's summer glow, its sun's gay shining,
When bonds of faith and hope are twining;
The charms of hours, pursued by years
Of daily thought, and daily tears;
Watching for comet-beams that run
But once for ever near the sun,
Then glide into a track of shade
No mortal vision can pervade.
The harp, that even now can please,
When I have felt somewhat of these;
The harp, the dearest joy of mine,
I now, perhaps for aye, resign.