Classic Poem

Can I touch my harp again?
Can I wake its mellow strain?
In the damp it long has hung,
Long its chords have been unstrung,
Moss around its frame has twined,
It has only felt the wind,
All its soothing tones have slept
In the shade where dews have wept,
Scarce a sigh the wind has breathed
Through its strings, by grasses wreathed:
Though it long unused has lain,
I will touch my harp again.

I will touch my harp again,
Wake it to a cheerful strain;
Like the whispering breeze, that flings
Sweetness from its waving wings,
It shall shed on all around
Notes that softly, sweetly sound.
Come, my harp, and let me try,
If my fingers now can fly
As they could when youth was high.
Age has numbed them, — cankering care
Chilled my heart, and planted there
('Stead of love and joy and pleasure,
Mirth that wakes the frolic measure)
Sorrow for a world of woe,
And grief, whose tears for ever flow:
Spite of this, a cheerful strain
Shall my harp awake again.

Autumn smiles, the sky is blue:
Let me for an hour or two
Draw thee from thy rest of years,
Brush away thy dewy tears,
Brighten up thy chords again,
And wake them to a cheerful strain.

They will bid my sorrows fly,
They will light my fading eye;
Only for a fleeting hour
Let me feel their soothing power;
Let me, while they breathe of love,
All my griefs, my woes remove;
Though the joy is short, 't is dear: —
Cease to flow, thou falling tear,
For I wake my harp again
To a sweetly soothing strain.