Classic Poem

They are not all sweet nightingales
That fill with songs the flowery vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the winds in the smiling dells;
Magic bells of gold in the grove,
Forming a chorus for her I love.

Think not the voices in the air
Are from the winged Sirens fair,
Playing among the dewy trees
Chanting their morning mysteries;
Oh! if you listen, delighted there,
To their music scattered o'er the dales,
They are not all sweet nightingales , etc.

Oh! 'twas a lovely song — of art
To charm — of nature to touch the heart;
Sure 'twas some shepherd's pipe, which played
By passion fills the forest shade;
No! 'tis music's diviner part
Which o'er the yielding spirit prevails.
They are not all sweet nightingales , etc.

In the eye of love, which all things sees,
The fragrance-breathing jasmine trees —
And the golden flowers — and the sloping hill —
And the ever melancholy rill —
Are full of holiest sympathies,
And tell of love a thousand tales.
They are not all sweet nightingales,
That fill with songs the cheerful vales;
But they are little silver bells,
Touched by the wind in the smiling dells,
Bells of gold in the secret grove,
Making music for her I love.