Page:Poetical Remains.pdf/275

Rh

—Was it illusion?—Yet again Rises and falls th' enchanted strain, Mellow, and sweet, and faint, As if some spirit's touch had given The soul of sound to harp of Heaven To soothe a dying saint! Is it the mermaid's distant shell, Warbling beneath the moonlight wave? —Such witching tones might lure full well The seaman to his grave! Sure from no mortal touch ye rise, Wild, soft, aerial melodies! —Is it the song of woodland-fay From sparry grot, or haunted bower? Hark! floating on, the magic lay Draws near yon ivied tower! Now nearer still, the listening ear May catch sweet harp-notes, faint yet clear, And accents low, as if in fear, Thus murmur, half-suppressed;