Where lutes in the air are heard about
And voices are singing the whole day long,
And every sigh the heart breathes out
Is turned, as it leaves the lips, to song!
Hither I come
From my fairy home,
And if there's a magic in Music's strain
I swear by the breath
Of that moonlight wreath
Thy Lover shall sigh at thy feet again.
For mine is the lay that lightly floats
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes
That fall as soft as snow on the sea
And melt in the heart as instantly:--
And the passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles thro'
As the musk-wind over the water blowing
Ruffles the wave but sweetens it too.
Mine is the charm whose mystic sway
The Spirits of past Delight obey;--
Let but the tuneful talisman sound,
And they come like Genii hovering round.
And mine is the gentle song that bears
From soul to soul the wishes of love,
As a bird that wafts thro' genial airs
The cinnamon-seed from grove to grove.[311]
'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure
The past, the present and future of pleasure;
When Memory links the tone that is gone
With the blissful tone that's still in the ear;
And Hope from a heavenly note flies on
To a note more heavenly still that is near.
The warrior's heart when touched by me,
Can as downy soft and as yielding be
As his own white plume that high amid death
Thro' the field has shone--yet moves with a breath!
And oh, how the eyes of Beauty glisten.
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