 | The battle of Niagara |  |
Now heaves the lyre as if oppressed—
And panting now, subsides to rest,
Like rapture on a maiden's breast;
Or like the struggling sounds that rove,
When boyhood tells its earliest love:
Or like those strange unearthly lyres,
Whose hearts are strung with unseen wires,
That wake but to the winds of heaven—
The breezes of the morn and even;
That mounting to the rosy skies,
Like sky-larks on their freshest wing,
For ever mount, for ever sing,
Louder, and louder as they rise.
And panting now, subsides to rest,
Like rapture on a maiden's breast;
Or like the struggling sounds that rove,
When boyhood tells its earliest love:
Or like those strange unearthly lyres,
Whose hearts are strung with unseen wires,
That wake but to the winds of heaven—
The breezes of the morn and even;
That mounting to the rosy skies,
Like sky-larks on their freshest wing,
For ever mount, for ever sing,
Louder, and louder as they rise.
| The battle of Niagara | |