How can that eye, with inspiration beaming,

Wear yet so deep a calm? O child of song!

Is not the music-land a world of dreaming,

Where forms of sad, bewildering beauty throng?

Hath it not sounds from voices long departed?

Echoes of tones that rung in childhood’s ear?

Low haunting whispers, which the weary-hearted,

Stealing midst crowds away, have wept to hear?

No, not to thee! Thy spirit, meek, yet queenly,

On its own starry height, beyond all this,