Classic Poem

The poet to the minstrel said:
“Your ancient harp prepare;
I want a tune to words for song;
Compose for me an air!”
“My minstrel's harp is out of tune,
Long since its chords I've pressed
Thousand pianos in the State
Have put my harp to rest.”

“Minstrel, is there no lady fair
To turn to song my prose?
Of all the ladies who perform
Can none an air compose?”
“Poet, they only bang and clink
Some other minstrel's lay,
And copy lines they cannot think,
Like an aphasia.”

“Where song is stale, unhappy State!
As tuneless as the bees;
The negro singing past my gate
Has native melodies.
Flutes the canary in the cage,
Only of speech immune,
The mocking bird requires but words
To give an anthem tune.

“In lands uneducated, song
The peasant's instinct learns;
Beranger's rhythm, airs from Moore,
And whistled strains of Burns;
The harpischord, the violin,
For human science sigh;
There is no way to make a tune
But to conceive and try!

“Of one octave all music comes,
Of seven days all time,
The fife companions to the drums
And bells but chime to rhyme;
Let home-made music lift our cares,
Life's interstices please,
Our nation's odes to Europe's airs
Are foreign marriages.”

O, haste the time when business men
By hundreds sing in choirs;
And ladies, improvising, set
New music on their wires!
As when Tyrtaeus' trumpet led
And Sappho's lyre was strung!
For poetry will next be dead
If it is never sung.