As they whisper their surmise:
"'Tis a sister in disguise,
Singing for the world's delight,
The cantata she, by right,
Should have sung in Heaven to-night."
Now the witching rhythm flows
Softly to a perfect close,
In severed notes that drowse and swoon,
If for ever, ah, too soon!
And we sigh the song should be
So fugitive, when suddenly
A swift, aerial round
Of voluptuous, throbbing sound
Flows again in wild delight
Through the enamoured hush of night,
On and on, as if to drain
His heart of music in one strain
The bird, if bird it be, were fain.
'Tis a bird, and nothing more,
With one song, his only store,
And he repeats it o'er and o'er
To be more perfect than before.
But that bird in heavenly spheres,
Singing to angelic cars,
That did never suffer wound
From a false discordant sound,
For his singing would be crowned.
A pause—and now the vale is full
Of intermittent, musical
Trills of rapture, beautiful!
Rippling in the dreamy sky,
