"Something I see in the lightning's flash
That my fellows may not see,
And something hear in the thunder's crash,
That cometh alone to me;--
But the glory fades ere I gather it in,
And fix it in brain or heart;
And the strains I caught thro' the elements' din,
Are lost in Toil's crowded mart.
"O haunting strains of unuttered song!
O tenderest melodies lost!
O sweet, stray notes of the heavenly throng
On the wing of the tempest tossed!
O spirit-harp that, untouched, untuned,
To each subtle influence thrills,
As thrills some wild, Aeolian harp,
To the breezes that sweep the hills!--
"I thirst, I pant, to be free to list
To the voices that call to me,
From flood and fountain, from vale and height,
From forest, and shore, and sea,--
To gaze on the Beauty whose subtle fire
Breaks on me thro' Nature's eyes,
And pour from the strings of my unused lyre
All tenderest harmonies!"
Ah, thirsty spirit! the day will come,
When, the sway of this mortal o'er,
Thou shall strike thy lyre with a fearless hand
On a brighter, calmer shore;
For God, who giveth the breath of Song,
Will not let His bright gifts die;
And though thy harp-strings be silent long,
Thou shalt waken them by and by.
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