Classic Poem

Ah, the chords that only slumber
Ready for his hand,
And the armies without number
Waiting his command,
When the tramp of Truth's own legions
Shall o'erthrow the wrongs that cumber
This predestined land;
Paeans following the victors,
Wild and sweet and grand!

Then a rhyme shall still a cannon,
And a stanza win a fight,
And a song shall rout a war cloud
As the morning drives the night.
And the " doleful miserere, "
Played upon the iron keys,
Shall give way to chants of gladness
And the overture of peace.

And the theme that's ever new,
Love of man and maiden true,
Shall make eyes of women glisten
With such songs as one might listen
To in starry spheres;
While the blood that swiftly rushes
Shall bloom out in happy blushes,
Or distil in tears.

So shall speed the happy years,
The harvest days of Time;
So the bard, in radiant tiers,
Shall build the walls of rhyme;
And ring the music of the spheres
As on a heavenly chime.