Classic Poem

Hush'd is the lyre--the hand that swept
The low and pensive wires,
Robb'd of its cunning, from the task retires.

Yes--it is still--the lyre is still;
The spirit which its slumbers broke
Hath pass'd away,--and that weak hand that woke
Its forest melodies hath lost its skill.

Yet I would press you to my lips once more,
Ye wild, yet withering flowers of poesy;
Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour,
Mix'd with decaying odours: for to me
Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy,
As in the wood-paths of my native--

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