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Rh From Spanish chestnut trees' dense shade,

By old and heavy convent walls a wailing song,

Song of lost love, the torch of youth and life quench'd in despair,

Song of the dying swan, Fernando's heart is breaking.

Awaking from her woes at last retriev'd Amina sings,

Copious as stars and glad as morning light the torrents of her joy.

(The teeming lady comes,

The lustrious orb, Venus contralto, the blooming mother,

Sister of loftiest gods, Alboni's self I hear.)

I hear those odes, symphonies, operas,

I hear in the William Tell the music of an arous'd and angry people,

I hear Meyerbeer's Huguenots, the Prophet, or Robert,

Gounod's Faust, or Mozart's Don Juan.

I hear the dafice-music of all nations,

The waltz, some delicious measure, lapsing, bathing me in bliss,

The bolero to tinkling guitars and clattering castanets.

I see religious dances old and new,

I hear the sound of the Hebrew lyre,

I see the crusaders marching bearing the cross on high, to the martial clang of cymbals,

I hear dervishes monotonously chanting, interspers'd with frantic shouts, as they spin around turning always towards Mecca,

I see the rapt religious dances of the Persians and the Arabs,

Again, at Eleusis, home of Ceres, I see the modern Greeks dancing,

I hear them clapping their hands as they bend their bodies,

I hear the metrical shuffling of their feet.

I see again the wild old Corybantian dance, the performers wounding each other,

I see the Roman youth to the shrill sound of flageolets throwing and catching their weapons,

As they fall on their knees and rise again.

I hear from the Mussulman mosque the muezzin calling,

I see the worshippers within, nor form nor sermon, argument nor word,

But silent, strange, devout, rais'd, glowing heads, ecstatic faces.