Classic Poem

Come, music sweet; come, music, to me here;
In softest strains of melody appear;
Pour on this wounded heart thy healing balm,
Prepared to soothe, and troubled spirits calm.
E'er since the time that on this mouldy ball
Man held a place, and that before the fall,
The youthful world was held in no reserve;
For thy enchanting strains did pleasure serve
The young creation, and they hailed the sound.
But then the Author's work did all rebound
With perfect mirth, and music in it all,
Till evil spirits caused man to fall.
But when the fruit was tasted and thought good,
First by the woman, then the man, as food,
Though the condition was at first so placed,
That they might use or all the produce taste
Of the fair garden, save alone one tree,
Which in the centre stood, and there to be
Untouched; but, notwithstanding these commands,
The rosy fruit looked tempting in Eve's hands,
Where it was by the cunning serpent placed.
Her watering teeth the dimpled apple traced
It suited well her palate when she ate;
She gave to man, and then was sealed their fate.
When in the book of record was inscribed
This scene so sad, as man to evil bribed,
Music still came, but with it came alloy,
For sounds of sadness came with sounds of joy.
At first the music was but nature's own;
Yet who will not in ready justice own
That nature's notes in beauty far excel
All sounds that art's production can impel?
Who this can question, if they lend an ear
Unto the lark that, pouring music clear,
Makes all the sphere for many miles around
With his gay song re-echo and resound;
Or, pausing, marks the sweet, melodious lay
The nightingale at stilly night doth lay;
Or listens to the morn or evening praise,
As the wild warblers blended chorus raise,
The hum of bee, as duty it fulfils,
The rippling stream that sports among the hills,
The constant murmur of the mighty seas,
Or pensive sighing of the Summer breeze,
Which, rambling, rustles through the leafy trees,
The choice of favor it may well command?
Yet art's production may in honor stand,
And hear the praises which her lover tells.
Who doth not love to hear the Sabbath bells?
Or who attend, without an inward sigh,
The gentle song which maidens' lips supply,
While on the harp with skilful touch is played
Responsive song, in harmony conveyed?
Or who can hear the noble martial strain,
And not be moved to long the sounds again?
The deep, grand notes of noble organ who
Can mutely tend, as they go thrilling through,
From aisle to aisle of some cathedral old,
And, rising, still their richer sounds unfold?
The love of music in the bud appears
First in the child of sweet and early years;
Then in the youth its early leaves unfold;
The fruit it bears in manhood's time behold;
Until the Autumn comes, old age enthrals,
Decay sets in, and then the leaflet falls.