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163
XVII.
TO JENNY LIND.
A melody with Southern passion fraughtI hear thee warble: 'tis as if a bird
By intuition human strains had caught,
But whose pure breast no kindred feeling stirred.
Thy native song the hushed arena fills,
So wildly plaintive, that I seem to stand
Alone, and see, from off the circling hills,
The bright horizon of the North expand!
High art is thus intact; and matchless skill
Born of intelligence and self-control,—
The graduated tone and perfect trill
Prove a restrained, but not a frigid soul;
Thine finds expression in such generous deeds,
That music from thy lips for human sorrow pleads!
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