Asleep, his reed pipe fallen by his knee;
And late, it seemed, a song had left his lips.
We heard but lapping ripple, prattling bee
Above the thyme’s dim-purple, downy tips;
Beyond, once beat by oars of beakéd ships,
Far outward swept the calm, the storied sea.
BACH’S ST. MATTHEW PASSION MUSIC.
Hark! on this wind eternal Voices ride.
Oh, hark! out of the deep mysterious East