Classic Poem

I

A N island set in a winding mere,
Into whose waters a river raced,
Filling the air with a music clear,
Lost in the lake with a gleeful haste:
And deep in the woods of that sacred isle
An ancient chapel was built afar —
The great trees hid that Gothic pile
As the dense clouds hide the evening star.

II

There, where the summer winds kept tryst
With the heavy boughs and strove to kiss 'em,
Dwelt a miraculous Organist —
Whose heart was music — whose fingers lissom
Bade the mighty instrument
Utter such sounds of joy and woe,
As if a passionate sprite were pent
Within, by the magic of long ago.

III

Over to that green island fled
By many a blue airial path,
All songs by the forest minstrels said,
All pleasant music nature hath:
And the dweller therein had a sorcery rare
Which made the simplest sounds divine:
His heart was a wondrous wine-press, where
Juice from the clusters turned to wine.

IV

The rustic carols in hayfields sung —
Old tunes that fell in the waggoner's track —
Weird music 'twas the woods among
When the marvellous organ gave them back.
And when autumn leaves on the moss fell crisper,
And the great oaks shed their golden locks —
Verily, often that organ-whisper
Mocked the wild wind of the equinox.

V

Each one who heard those blending numbers
Drew thence sweet visions of deep delight,
Free from the care which life encumbers,
Gladdened as if by a sorcerer's might.
Quaint old Baron, in carven chair,
With gouty ankle and eyesight dim,
Felt again the kiss of that maiden fair
Who in youth's rich years was all to him.

VI

Poet who haunted the verdurous track
That led from the lake to the hills above
Listened: the golden age came back —
Red roses blushed at the feet of love;
Stooped to the distant fountain-lymph,
Dipping her vase where ether blue
Was screened by leafage, the naked nymph —
Goat-footed faun peeped slily through.

VII

Girl with cheek like a half-ripe peach —
Playmate of summer on shadowy lawn —
Striving acacia-bloom to reach —
Romping with spaniel — toying with fawn;
Her the marvellous music clutches
As love shall clutch her, a short while hence,
Her happy heart with wonder touches,
And gives new zest to her indolence.

VIII

Mourner — searcher for one sweet face,
Spoiled, ah me! by the angel of death:
One glimpse, afar in the depths of space,
He has caught as he heareth the organ's breath:
One happy echo of low love-rhyme
Comes from the heart of the buried years,
Such as she sang in the summer time,
Her bright eyes brimming with joyous tears.

IX

And every melody issuing sweet
From the isle of elms, shall still abide
On mortal lips — shall dwell complete
On the endless ripples of time's strong tide.
Beauty must perish and leave men lonely;
Song of the poet must pass away;
Wisdom endures not: Music only
Of all man's joyaunce knows no decay.