But my weak soul can never rise the height
Where such Æolian strains belong.
Oft have I sat upon the seashore’s strand
And strung my proud harp to the wave,
While the billows rolled in splendor at my feet
And the salt sea did my cushion lave.
Then struck I out upon the surging tide
My sweetest notes of harp and wand,—
But my weak themes fell most far short the minstrelsy
Of those celestial strains beyond.