Classic Poem

And art thou dead? Thou very sweetest bird
That ever made a moonlight forest ring,
Its wild unearthly music mellowing;
Shall thy rich notes no more, no more be heard?
Never! Thy beautiful romantic themes
That made it mental heav'n to hear thee sing,
Lapping th' enchanted soul in golden dreams,
Are mute! Ah vainly did Italia fling
Her healing ray around thee — blossoming
With flushing flow'rs long wedded to thy verse;
Those flow'rs, those sunbeams, but adorn thy hearse;
And the warm gales that faintly rise and fall
In music's clime — themselves so musical —
Shall chaunt the minstrel's dirge far from his father's hall.