Classic Poem

Hark ! Music speaks from out the woods and streams;
Amidst the winds, amidst the harmonious rain:
It fills the voice with sweets, the eye with beams;
It stirs the heart; it charms the sting from pain.

Great Memory hoards it 'midst her golden themes;
The wise man keeps it with his learned gain;
The minstrel hears it in his listening dreams;
And no one, save the fool, doth deem it vain.

Whatever thing doth bring a joy unstained
Unto the soul, if rightly understood,
Is one more ingot to our fortune gained,
Is wisdom to the wise, good to the good:

" Sing then, divine one! " — Thus a lover sighed
To one who sate beside him fair and young,
Preluding with coquettish conscious pride,
And checked the half-born music on her tongue:

Sing maiden, — gentle maiden!
Sing for me; sing to me;
With a heart not overladen,
Nor too full of glee.
Give thy voice its way divine;
Let thine eyes, sweet spirits, shine;
Not too bright, but also tender,
Softness stealing half their splendour.
Sing, — but touch a sadder strain,
Till our eyes are hid in rain.
Tell of those whose hopes are wrecked
On that cruel strand, — neglect;
Widow poor and unbefriended;
Virgin dreams in ruin ended;
All the pleasure, all the pain
That hideth from the world's disdain.

Sing, — an airier blither measure,
Full and overflown with pleasure;
Sing, — with smiles and dimpling mouth,
Opening like the sunny South,
When it breathes amongst the roses,
And a thousand thousand sweets discloses.

Sing, — fair child of music, sing
Like love — hope — sorrow — any -thing;
Like a sparkling murmuring river,
Running its blue race for ever;
Like the sounds that haunt the Sun,
When the god's bright day is done;
Like the voice of dreaming Night,
Tender, touching, airy, light,
Not a wind, but just a breeze
Moving in the citron trees;
Like the first sweet murmur creeping
O'er Love's lips, (when pride is sleeping),
Love's first unforgotten word,
By maiden in the silence heard,
Heard, hoarded, and repeated oft,
In mimic whisper, low and soft, —

Yet, what matter for the strain,
Be it joy, or be it pain,
So thy now imprisoned Voice,
In its matchless strength rejoice;
So it burst its fetters strong,
And soar forth on winged Song!