Classic Poem

The song is still, that over heath and mountain,
When closed the day,
Thro' glimmering wood, by sky-empurpled fountain,
Stole soft away,—
In shady vale, by stream through roses playing,
On golden hill,
Breathed faint and low, as tenderly delaying,—
The song is still.

The song is still, that clear in morning hovered
O'er field and grove,
When billowy mist the winding valley covered,
Rocks glowed above,—
When bleat and bark, from bushy lawn repeated,
Rose round the hill,—
The joyous song, that light and buoyant fleeted,—
The song is still.

O, wake the song!—its notes remembered waken
My love of home:
Spite of my firmer will, my heart is shaken
By thoughts that come,
Thoughts of my early days,—in frolic measure
They glide along:
The song of youth, to notes of love and pleasure,—
O, wake the song!