Classic Poem

Where lives the soul of song?
Dwells it amid the city's festive halls?
Where crowd the eager throng,
Or where the wanderer's silent footstep falls?

Loves it the gay saloon,
Where wine and dances steal away the night,
And bright as summer noon
Burns round the pictured walls a blaze of light?

Seeks it the public square,
When victory hails the people's choson son,
And loud applauses there
From lip to lip in emulous greetings run?

Dwells it amid the host,
Who bear their crimson banners waving high;
Whose first and only boast
Draws tears of anguish from the patriot's eye?

Follows it on the path
Where the proud conqueror marches to his home,
And, wearied of his wrath,
Smiles as he steps beneath the imperial dome?

No,—not in festive halls,
In crowded marts, nor in the gay saloon;
Not in the forum falls,
Nor on the conquering host, the gracious boon;

But where blue mountains rise
Silent and calm amid the upper air,
And pure and cloudless skies
Bend o'er a world, that lies below as fair;

But where uncultured plains
Spread far and wide their beds of grass and flowers,
And heaven's bright pencil stains
Clear gems that roll away in silent showers;

But in the depth of woods,
Where the slant sunbeam gilds the hoary trees,
And the soft voice of floods
Glides on the pinions of the evening breeze;

But in the broken dell,
Where the crisped ivy curls its tangled vines,
And the wild blossom's bell
Drops with the dew that in its hollow shines;

But in the gulfy cave,
Where pours the cascade from the glacier's height,
And all its waters wave,
Like rainbows, in their luxury of light;—

There dwells the soul of song:
It flies not to the city's festive halls,
But loves to steal along,
Where the lone wanderer's silent footstep falls.