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THE VOICE OF MUSIC.
187
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirred by thee!
Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all—
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here—
A chain to be clasped in another sphere.
Therefore a current of sadness deep,
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky—
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!
