Classic Poem

No wonder if thy pulses thrill
To harmony almost divine
And yet it caught with all its skill
An eloquence much less than thine.

Yes! when the witching syren sung
Her unpremeditated song
'Twas but thy hearts dear native tongue
Which thou hast pined to hear so long.

Thy soul was as a living lute
Turned to the music of the spheres
Untouched before it's chords were mute
But now it echoes all it hears.

Thou hast not heard indeed on earth
Sounds that so flashed through all thy frame
But thou hast known them ere thy birth
Even in that Heaven from whence they came.

And when again the angel choirs
(Late may it be and I at rest)
Receive thee home from kindred lyres
Congenial sounds shall hail thee blest!