When rings the gush of golden harps,
And heavenly lutes are swept,
To tell the quenchless love of him
Who o’er a lost world wept.
2 The gliding rush of countless wings,
Borne on the swelling breeze,
That wafts the rustling music by,
Amid embowered trees;
The echo of the myriad feet,
That fall on pavements fair,