Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/199



they, in vision to thy soul, They who the harps of heaven control, What time in infant slumbers thrown, The unform'd mind receives its tone? Drank then thy tuneful lips their sigh Of deep, entrancing harmony, Unconscious of the balm it drew, Like rose-bud bathed in Hermon's dew?

—Or dwell'st thou to their hymning sphere, Than we of grosser clay, more near? Inhaling that ethereal note Which on some lucid cloud may float, And wooing thence the warbled air, To cheat us of our earthly care?

—When thou to them at last shalt soar, Bright pupil of seraphic lore, No strange or occult thing to thee, The language of the skies must be, Who scann'd on earth its melody.