Classic Poem

I KNOW thou hast within thee, child of dreams,
Songs which have not been uttered — veins of thought
As rich and rare as ever genius wrought,
Brightening thine inmost soul with golden gleams.
Enthusiast of the Muse! thy dark eye beams
Light intellectual; thy youthful cheek
Looks tinged with fancies which thou wilt not speak,
And through thy heart affection's current streams.
Vanish thy maiden fears! it well beseems
A gifted one of Poesy to sing:
Reanimate thy harp and bid it ring
Loudly, but sweetly, to a thousand themes —
Express the yearnings of thy soul, till fame
Yield thee a wreath of light to crown thy after name.