Classic Poem

Grieve not that, one by one,
The tender names are gone,
That lips no longer press
Thy fragrant, shining tress,
While oft the love-name sweet
Of daughter they repeat;
Nor that the fond words known
To lovers' lips alone
Are silent many a year;
Nor that the name most dear
Of all the air can bring
No more doth round thee ring,
But, heard, if heard at all,
'T is but the echo's call,
'T is but the night wind's cheat,
The flickering log's deceit.

Unweeting still must Art
Its highest gift impart.
Before our eyes it spreads
The glamor Beauty sheds;
But Beauty ne'er alone
Was on the canvas thrown,
Was never carved nor sung,
But still above it hung
The Vision it sets free,
Of Immortality.
What shall the heart not give
Attended so to live?
Can we then silent be,
Who owe such boon to thee?
So, when in rooms they filled
The love-tones all are stilled,
Dwell not in silence drear;
Open thy windows, hear
What myriad voices press
To thank thee and to bless.