Music

Oh, let me die in Music's arms, Clasped by some milder melody Than that which thrills with soft alarms The souls of Love and Ecstasy! Until the tired heart in me Is stilled of storms. So let me die, a slave of slaves, Within her train of lyric gold: Borne onward through her vasty caves Of harmony, that echo old With all our sad hearts hope and hold, And all life craves. Come with the pleasures dear to men In one long Triumph! what are they Beside the one that sweeps us when Her harp she smites? and far away She bears us from the cares of day Unto her glen? Her hollow glen, where, like a star, That, in deep heaven, thrills and throbs, She sits, her wild harp heard afar, Strung with the gold of grief that sobs, And love that sighs, and, whispering, robs All life of jar. Beneath her all-compelling eye Our souls lie naked: nothing seems That is: but that which is not, by Her magic, lives: and all our dreams Are real, and, clothed in heavenly gleams, Smile, leaning nigh. The soul of love that can not die Breathes on our eyelids starry fire; And sorrow, with sweet lips that sigh, Kisses our lips; and faith, the choir Of all our hopes, its heart a lyre, Goes singing by.