Classic Poem

While, o'er the dancing chords , your fingers fly,
And bid them live , 'till they have made us die ;
Trembling, in transport, at your touch, they spring,
As if there dwelt a heart , in every string .

Your voice, soft rising, thro' the lengthen'd notes ,
The marry'd harmony, united, floats;
Two charms, so join'd that they compose but one;
Like heat and brightness, from the self-same sun.

T HE wishful viol would its wealth retain,
And, sweetly conscious, hugs the pleasing pain;
Envious, forbids the warbling joys to roll,
And, murm'ring inward, swells its sounding soul.

P ROUD of its charming pow'r , your tuneful bow
Floats o'er the chords majestically slow ;
Careless, and soft, calls out a tide of art ,
And, in a storm of musick , drowns the heart.

So, when that God , who gave you all your skill ,
Tolangel forms (like yours) entrusts his will ,
Calm, they descend, some new-meant world to found ,
And, smiling, see creation rising round!