Classic Poem

Love plays a lute, and Thought an organ grand.
These tones are stately, those a restless strain,
Seeming by cadenced joy to measure pain,
And capture Fancy by the soft airs fanned.
Thought sends his pæans thrilling through the land;
The worshipers that bow before his fane
Find rest in contemplation, spirit-gain
In sweetest harmonies. Yon rapturous band,
Kneeling to catch the music of the lute,
Have yearning in their eyes, yet something there
That baffles all our reas'ning; is it peace,
Or only glances with beseeching mute?
Sometimes it deepens into holy prayer.
Enchanted Love! thy music never cease!