Music Poem by Alaric Alexander Watts

Mysterious keeper of the key
That opes the gates of Memory,
Oft, in thy wildest, simplest strain,
We live o'er years of bliss again!
The sun-bright hopes of early youth,
Love, in its first deep hour of truth;
And dreams of life's delightful morn,
Are on thy seraph pinions borne.
To the Enthusiast's heart, thy tone
Breathes of the lost and lovely one;
And calls back moments, brief as dear,
When last 'twas wafted on his ear.
The Exile listens to the song
Once heard his native bowers among;
And straightway on his visions rise
Home's sunny slopes and cloudless skies.
The Warrior, from the strife retired,
By Music's stirring strains inspired,
Turns him to deeds of glory done,
To dangers 'scaped—and laurels won.
Enchantress sweet of smiles and tears,
Spell of the dreams of vanished years,
Mysterious keeper of the key
That opes the gates of Memory;
'Tis thine to bid sad hearts be gay,
Yet chase the smiles of mirth away;—
Joy's sparkling eye in tears to steep,
Yet bid the mourner cease to weep!
To gloom or gladness thou canst suit
The chords of thy delicious lute;
For every heart thou hast a tone,
Can make its pulses all thine own!