Classic Poem

Ah ! not that song, nor any song:
Thy music mocks the heart
With memories cherish'd still too long,
That will not now depart;
For me, o'er whom a blighted past
Will still its withering trophies cast,
There is no heaven in art: —
The strain that cannot hope restore,
But makes me feel the lost the more.

I ask not music's power to show
What earth has once possess'd;
Nor does it need that all should know
My heart has once been bless'd:
The tear thy song has made to start,
Betrays the secret of my heart,
The pang that will not rest;
But wakes to instant strength and sting,
When memory spreads her dusky wing.

That night-bird, with its chant, still nigh,
A sad, mysterious tone,
Recalling, with its boding cry,
The ghosts of glories gone;
Bends o'er me with each human strain,
Restores that hour , with all its pain,
Dark hour, I could not shun;
Brings back the full soul's trial then,
Which left me desolate 'mongst men!

They tell me that thy song is sweet,
And eyes that look delight,
Follow, with silent love, thy feet,
And gladden in thy sight; —
It needs not proof like this — thy strain,
That brings the perish'd back again,
The musical, the bright, —
May well persuade me of thy grace,
In pure white soul and angel face.

Enough — thou hast her charm divine,
To kindle and to move;
On others let thy beauties shine,
In others waken love;
Perchance — and it is sure my prayer —
Life's joys alone, and not its care,
Thy future fate may prove;
Enough, resembling her, I see
Her virtues, not herself, in thee.