Eolian Harp, An
A SPIRIT lurks within this wooden shell,
Whose name is Music; and these silver strings
Seem the fine bars that shut him in his cell,
Wherein the tuneful captive sighs and sings.
He is the lover of the Wind, and when
Her breath awakes him on soft summer nights,
He answers her with melody; ah then,
He thrills — he faints with rapturous delights,
Or sighing breathes along the murmuring wire,
The languors of unsatisfied desire!
Thus Fancy holds my mystic harp still dear,
Kissed by the warm South, sweet with wood and dale,
Or when across its bosom swept I hear
The shrill arpeggios of the rising gale!
Whose name is Music; and these silver strings
Seem the fine bars that shut him in his cell,
Wherein the tuneful captive sighs and sings.
He is the lover of the Wind, and when
Her breath awakes him on soft summer nights,
He answers her with melody; ah then,
He thrills — he faints with rapturous delights,
Or sighing breathes along the murmuring wire,
The languors of unsatisfied desire!
Thus Fancy holds my mystic harp still dear,
Kissed by the warm South, sweet with wood and dale,
Or when across its bosom swept I hear
The shrill arpeggios of the rising gale!
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