In its wild strength—as struggling springs their source,
Break, and are borne in murm’ring sounds along:
Say, was it thine?—thy Parent-giving strain,
The innate warbling of thy purer soul,
That gush’d, as if it would to bowers attain
Where flowers unwith’ring bloom, and strains divine e’er roll?
But ah! again to earth that half-fled sprite
Sinks, in the beauty of some well-known air,
Less free and joyous, in its raptur’d flight,
Than the wild touching thrill that spoke thee there.