Our house, that long in darkness dwelt, And long in silence, day by day, Before the mountain snows could melt, While yet the world was bleak and gray, Received an impulse from the play Of sudden fingers on the strings, That made the new-born meadows gay With magic touch, as 'twere the Spring's. The melancholy frog no more Shall pipe his burden, twanging shrill; The oriole gives his matins o'er, No song-bird now hath any skill; Even that reproachful whippoorwill That stirred such memories in my heart Is hushed, — yet comes, a listener still, Nightly, to hear Cordelia's art. O virgins of the silver lute! O goddess of the golden chord! And thou great master of the flute, Pan, of the reeds acknowledged lord! Troop hither, and your best reward For your old music, in the days When young Apollo was your king, Shall be to peep from yonder bays, And hear your latest scholar sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI: 1. EMBARKATION by JOHN GOULD FLETCHER HYMN OF TRUST by OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY; A PATHETIC BALLAD by THOMAS HOOD LYDIA (1) by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE STRANGE FILAMENT by LILLIAN M. (PETTES) AINSWORTH ECHO SONG by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |