Oh! is there a heart that has not beat high
At the magic sound of the gong?
Music hath pow'r on the bright, blue lake.
Oh! how on thy lake, Geneva,
I've listen'd at eve to the far-off sound
Of the marrow-bone and cleaver!
Music hath pow'r on Hybla's hill,
When summer bees are humming;
And fair hands charm the insect band,
On frying-pan sweetly strumming.