Classic Poem

We ask no more why strains like thine
Enchant a listening throng,
For we have felt in one sweet hour
The magic of thy song.

How like the carol of a bird,
It stole upon the ear!
Then tenderly it died away,
In echoes soft and clear.

But hark! again its music breaks
Harmonious on the soul;
How thrills the heart, at every tone,
With bliss beyond control!

If strains like these, so pure, so sweet,
To mortal lips be given,
What must the glorious anthems be
Which angels wake in heaven?

'Tis past! 'tis gone! that fairy dream
Of happiness is o'er!
And we, the music of thy voice
Perhaps may hear no more.

Yet, Sweden's daughter, thou shalt live
In every grateful heart,
And may the choicest gifts of heaven
Be thine, where'er thou art!