Classic Poem

TO THE HARP OF MARGARETTA.

O Harp! when late thy mistress o'er thee bending
 Swept thy wild strings with all a Minstrel's fire,
 Tranc'd by the potent sounds, I saw the choir
Of white-rob'd Bards from Snowdon's height descending:
Graceful their port, as in the days of yore;
 Mild were their eyes with rays immortal beaming;
 Snowy their locks, loose to the breezes streaming;
And bright the wreaths that on their brows they wore;
And “O,” they said, their voices all uniting,
 “Who strikes the chords with such a master hand?
 Sure 'tis some spirit of our tuneful band,
That breathes his influence o'er that form delighting:
 For not in trophied halls, at festal tide,
 Were heard more noble strains in Cambria's hour of pride!”