Say, by what strain, through cloudless ether swelling,
Thou hast drawn down those wanderers from the skies?
Bright guests! even such as left of yore their dwelling,
For the deep cedar-shades of Paradise!
What strain?—oh! not the nightingale's, when showering
Her own heart's life drops on the burning lay,
She stirs the young woods in the days of flowering,
And pours her strength, but not her grief, away:
And not the Exile's!—When 'midst lonely billows
He wakes the Alpine notes his mother sung,
Or blends them with the sigh of alien willows,
Where, murmuring to the wind, his harp is hung.
And not the Pilgrim's!—though his thoughts be holy,
And sweet his Ave-song, when day grows dim,
Yet, as he journeys pensively and slowly,
Something of sadness floats through that low hymn.
But Thou—the Spirit which at eve is filling
All the hushed air and reverential sky,
Founts, leaves, and flowers with solemn rapture thrilling,
This is the soul of thy rich harmony!
This bears up high those breathings of devotion
Wherein the currents of thy heart gush free;
—Therefore no world of sad and vain emotion
Is the dream-haunted Music-Land for Thee.
