Classic Poem

The chords thy ready fingers used to move
At fond request of dear domestic love,
Now grief, alas! hath tried that heart too much,
Thou yieldest up to meet another's touch.
No longer thine, they leave us yet behind
The better music of thy well-tuned mind,
Whose various melodies, each singly sweet,
Make of thy life one harmony complete;
And Love's firm tone, which time nor clime can mar,
And ne'er one shock of temper comes to jar.