And seemed to issue from their topmost height;
Then there were words, in measured cadence sung.
Now soft and low, then with a master’s might,
Poured forth that varying strain, upon the stilly night
Who sings? the minstrel knows there is but one,
Whose voice has music half so rich, and deep
Whose hand can summon from the harp a tone,
So thrilling, that it calls from latent sleep
Heroic thoughts, dims eyes, that seldom weep,
With tears of extasy, and fires the breast,