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314 I hear the Egyptian harp of many strings,

The primitive chants of the Nile boatmen,

The sacred imperial hymns of China,

To the delicate sounds of the king, (the stricken wood and stone,)

Or to Hindu flutes and the fretting twang of the vina,

A band of bayaderes.

Now Asia, Africa leave me, Europe seizing inflates me,

To organs huge and bands I hear as from vast concourses of voices,

Luther's strong hymn Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott,

Rossini's Stabat Mater dolorosa,

Or floating in some high cathedral dim with gorgeous color'd windows,

The passionate Agnus Dei or Gloria in Excelsis.

Composers! mighty maestros!

And you, sweet singers of old lands, soprani, tenori, bassi!

To you a new bard caroling in the West,

Obeisant sends his love.

(Such led to thee O soul,

All senses, shows and objects, lead to thee,

But now it seems to me sound leads o'er all the rest.)

I hear the annual singing of the children in St. Paul's cathedral,

Or, under the high roof of some colossal hall, the symphonies, oratorios of Beethoven, Handel, or Haydn, The Creation in billows of godhood laves me.

Give me to hold all sounds, (I madly struggling cry,)

Fill me with all the voices of the universe,

Endow me with their thobbings, Nature's also,

The tempests, waters, winds, operas and chants, marches and dances,

Utter, pour in, for I would take them all!

Then I woke softly,

And pausing, questioning awhile the music of my dream,

And questioning all those reminiscences, the tempest in its fury,

And all the songs of sopranos and tenors,

And those rapt oriental dances of religious fervor,