And whether bred the stars among,
Or in that luminous palace born,
Around his airy footsteps hung
The light of an immortal morn.
From steep to steep he fearless springs,
And now he glides the throng amid.
So light, as if still played the wings
That 'neath his tunic sure are hid!
A fairy flute is in his hand—
He parts his bright, disordered hair,
And smiles upon the wondering band,
A strange, sweet smile, with tranquil air.
Anon, his blue, celestial eyes
He bent upon a youthful maid,
Whose looks met his in still surprise,
The while a low, glad tune he played—
Her heart beat wildly—in her face
The lovely rose-light went and came;
She clasped her hands with timid grace,
In mute appeal, in joy and shame!
Then slow he turned—more wildly breathed
The pleading flute, and by the sound
Through all the throng her steps she wreathed,
As if a chain were o'er her wound.
All mute and still the group remained,
And watched the charm, with lips apart,
While in those linkéd notes enchained,
The girl was led, with listening heart:—
The youth ascends the rocks again.
And in his steps the maiden stole,
While softer, holier grew the strain,
Till rapture thrilled her yearning soul!
And fainter fell that fairy tune;
Its low, melodious cadence wound,
Most like a rippling rill at noon,
Through delicate lights and shades of sound;
And with the music, gliding slow,
Far up the steep, their garments gleam;
Now through the palace gate they go;
And now—it vanished like a dream!