Classic Poem

I had a harp of many chords,
Where song and music loved to dwell,
And oft it told, in burning words,
What song and music only tell:
The pulse that thrills the hero's heart,
The blood that stirs the patriot's veins,
And passion's power and passion's art
Were on its wires and in its strains.

The tints that deck the glowing west,
The gorgeous light of summer skies,
The barren sea's tumultuous breast,
The purpled earth's unnumber'd dyes;
The songs of birds, that come to drink
And hear the lay of quiet streams,
Those haunted rivers, on whose brink
Dwell visions sweet and summer dreams.

And sometimes grew the strain more high,
And rush'd like lightning thro' the chords;
It sang the battle's dinning cry,
The trumpet voice and clashing swords:
But now my lyre no longer sings
The loftier themes it loved of yore,
When worldly thoughts have swept its strings,
It wakes to passion's voice no more!