Classic Poem

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
Whose theme is in the skies—
Like morning larks that sweeter sing
The nearer Heaven they rise.

Tho' love his magic lyre may tune
Yet ah, the flowers he round it wreathes
Were plucked beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness in their odor breathes.

How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flowers that turn to heavenly fruit,
And palm that never dies.

Tho' War's high-sounding harp may be
Most welcome to the hero's ears;
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn like Saints above,
No victor but the Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!