Classic Poem

Methinks the noblest form of song
Is music of the mind,
Which only thought can formulate,
And waken'd fancy find.

Such music as the poet feels,
When deep in mystic scroll,
He enters, with a noiseless step,
The temple of the soul;

And hears, along its shadowy aisles,
The secret whisper creep,
And melodies, of wondrous power,
Among its arches sweep.

Scarce less is he who music hears
In nature everywhere,
A solo in the running brook,
And concerts in the air;

Rich movements in the waving pines,
Mixed voices in the deep—
Now raging as in angry mood,
Now gentle as in sleep.

But men are few whose souls are moved
By nature's myriad strains,
Which thunder from her mountain tops,
And murmur o'er her plains;

And fewer still who, seeking, find
The springs of human thought,
And enter on the poet's land,
Where music comes unsought.

Still, to rejoice the hearts of men
'Mid earth's engrossing care,
God, in the garden of each soul,
Hath placed this seedling rare,

This inborn sense of harmony—
Which rising through the soul,
Can fill each part with melody,
And happiness the whole.

And he who, glad acknowledging
Its high and heavenly birth,
Shall set to themes ennobling
Its music here on earth;

Shall, when a general death has hushed
All harmony below,
With soul attuned to nobler strains
On high for ever glow.