Classic Poem

When o'er the pensive wind-harp's strings
The Zephyr's sighing breath is blown,
Afar the trembling warbler flings
Before the breeze its swelling tone.
Yet soon adown the vale
The fainting murmurs fail;
No vocal echoes to each other call,
And silence reigns where rang the " dying fall. "

But when beneath the nobler sweep
Of Friendship's hand the heart-strings move,
Or when they breathe a strain more deep,
Brushed by the thrilling wings of Love;
Though months and years roll by,
Those tones can never die:
Placed on the heart, the ear, whene'er it will,
Around its chambers hears them echoing still.

Yet holier strains eternal roll
Along this vale of sighs and tears,
When Love Divine, within the soul,
Strikes chords that sound through endless years;
For, on the heavenward side
Of Death's dark, silent tide,
Those tones shall leap along the echoing shore,
And ring through crystal spheres for evermore!