THE VOICE OF MUSIC.
“Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.”
Childe Harold.
Whence is the might of thy master-spell?
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
How canst thou wake, by one gentle breath,
Passionate visions of love and death!
How call'st thou back, with a note, a sigh,
Words and low tones from the days gone by—
A sunny glance, or a fond farewell?—
Speak to me, voice of sweet sound, and tell!
What is thy power, from the soul's deep spring
In sudden gushes the tears to bring?
Even 'midst the swells of thy festal glee,
Fountains of sorrow are stirr'd by thee!
Vain are those tears!—vain and fruitless all—
Showers that refresh not, yet still must fall;
For a purer bliss while the full heart burns,
For a brighter home while the spirit yearns!
Something of mystery there surely dwells,
Waiting thy touch, in our bosom-cells;
Something that finds not its answer here—
A chain to be clasp'd in another sphere.
Therefore a current of sadness deep,
Through the stream of thy triumphs is heard to sweep,
Like a moan of the breeze through a summer sky—
Like a name of the dead when the wine foams high!
Yet speak to me still, though thy tones be fraught
With vain remembrance and troubled thought;
Speak! for thou tellest my soul that its birth
Links it with regions more bright than earth.
