To An Ancient Lute Poem by John Bannister Tabb

As one who on the precincts of a shrine,
Treads softly, lest his footfall, echoing there,
Profane the cloistered solitude of prayer,
So, reverence stays this venturous hand of mine,
Upon the brink of sound. Lo! themes divine,
Hushed of the folding silence, everywhere,
Upon the drowsy bosom of the air,
Around thy form, oblivious recline:
O, bid me wake them! Let me call again,
Thy latest born-the last whose lingering sigh
Sank, as departing Genius retired,
Into the mist of slumber. Hark, a train
Of Echoes, heralding the anthem high!
Prepare, my soul, to greet the strain inspired.