Classic Poem

And would they tame thee down my lyre
Checking thy fall and swell
To make thee what — harmonious wire
A modulated shell?
Ah! where were then thy native fire
And thy heart-moving spell?

No! let them teach their tuneful art
To nightingale or dove
Thou canst not be a thing of art
Below it — or above —
Thou'rt but the echo of the heart
The murmur of it's love.

No! as beneath the moonbeam pale
To every breeze that springs,
The sweet wild minstrel of the gale
Her fitful music flings,
So must thy master's strange sad tale
Thrill from thy trembling strings!