By some unknown, mysterious sympathy.
So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone,
Pour’d on my soul a music of its own,
And waked an answering chord within my breast,
Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.
Thou gifted Bard! whose richly gilded thought
Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught,
And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath,
Which dims all brightness in this world of death—
I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung!