Classic Poem

When turrets, walls, and bars — by Phaebus' aid —
Decked Nisa's kingly town with strong array,
Upon a coping-stone that near him lay
His gold-strung harp, still vibrating, he laid.
The battlement was ne'er so far decayed
But that the stone, e'en to the latest day,
A soft melodious strain would gently play
When gliding fingers lightly o'er it strayed.
So also on this Album-leaf I place,
(This leaf thou'lt stir — in turning o'er — full oft),
Some tones that from my lowly harp have rung;
Yet much I doubt if ever thou wilt trace —
When coming to this page — a murmur soft;
I am not Phaebus, nor from Phaebus sprung.