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Thus o'er the light ^Eolian lyre The winds of dark November stray,
Touch the quick nerve of every wire, And on its magic pulses play ;—
Till all the air around.
Mysterious murmurs fill, A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,— yet mournful still
O ! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand, Hope ! who hast been a stranger long ;
O ! strike it with sublime command. And be the Poet's life thy song.
Of vanish'd troubles sing.
Of fears for ever fled. Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead ; —
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