Classic Poem

Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
That freshen'd Beauty's flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
I heard a young girl sing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing.’

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
And on with heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flow'd
Forth from a broken string,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing.’

'Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
'Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
Home to a glorious sphere,
Yet still it sigh'd, even when was spread
The waiting Angel's wing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
For 'tis a holy thing.’