Classic Poem

Long had been lost enchanting Sappho's lyre,
Its graceful warblings, and its tender fire.
No more the guardians of the Aonian well
To wanton hands wou'd trust their sacred shell.
When wand'ring thoughtless o'er the tuneful hill,
When wand'ring thoughtless of th' inspiring rill,
Chance guided Temple to the secret shade,
Where the shy sisters had the music laid.
Its form unusual caught her curious eye;
She touch'd it, and it murmur'd melody.
Across the chords an artless sweep she flings;
Airs, vernal airs, return the vocal strings.
Again her fingers o'er the lines she throws;
Spontaneous numbers from her touch arose.
Surpriz'd she hears th' unmeditated lay;
Pleas'd and surpriz'd, repeats th' harmonious play.
" Whence flow these numbers undesign'd? " she cries.
" Those numbers are your own: " the lyre replies.
" The seeds of genuine poesy, tho' unknown,
" By parent Phaebus in your soul were sown:
" Too modest to expect the growth you see,
" To wake them into life you wanted me. "