Classic Poem

Kind minstrel, wilt thou wake once more
That long forgotten strain?
There's something in its wild sad notes
I fain would hear again.

Then gently touch the light guitar,
That once I loved to praise;
And soothe me with its music now,
In songs of other days.

Long years have tolled their weary round,
Since last I heard its tone;
And in those years how many pangs
This aching heart has known!

I feel no more as once I felt,
The warmth of friendship's rays;—
But friendship's words I yet may hear,
In songs of other days.

Rememb'rest thou the mossy nook
Beneath the aged pine?
The hawthorn hedge—the rose that grew
Beside the clustering vine?

Around those old familiar scenes
A busy fancy plays;—
Then soothe me with thy music now,
In songs of other days.

Rememb'rest thou the village church—
The graveyard's lone retreat—
The violets we planted there,
So beautiful—so sweet?

I cannot now indulge the hope
On that dear spot to gaze;
I would more gladly then recall,
The songs of other days.

The bird will seek its native clime,
And mates from whom it strayed;—
And list with rapture to their songs,
Amid each verdant glade—

So would I seek my early home,
And walk in pleasure's ways;
So will my bosom bound to hear
The songs of other days.