Classic Poem

There is an air for which I would disown
— — Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, —
A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,
— — And keeps its secret charm for me alone.

Whene'er I hear that music vague and old,
— — Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;
The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
— — A green land golden in the dying day.

An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
— — And windows gay with many-colored glass;
Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
— — That bathe the castle basement as they pass.

In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
— — A lady looks forth from her window high;
It may be that I knew and found her fair,
— — In some forgotten life, long time gone by.