Then with unsteady hand from out his breast
He drew the pipe of Pan—the reedy flute
That long neglected in inglorious rest,
Dark, like his vision, lay there cold and mute.
Up to his quivering lips he raised it slowly;
A moment paused, then blew a fainting strain:
His rigid brow relaxed, his head drooped lowly,
He felt the old, the sweet, immortal pain!
Again the mellow, melting notes he tried,—
Again meek Echo caught her breath and sighed.
Then freer, stronger, lovelier grew the lay;
Uncertain fears fled guiltily away;
The lilies, listening, paled, the breeze grew whist,
The violets flushed to deeper amethyst,
The restless Hours, departing, longed to stay.
And he forgot his melancholy state,
Fair Nomia's blissful love and fatal hate,—
In the rapt exaltation of his mind,
Forgot that he was blind;
And poured that moving music in thine ear,
Which still Sicilian shepherds in the dawn
And deepening twilight, from some balmy lawn
Or grove of Ætna, fondly think they hear.
