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16 I've heard in old St. Peter's dome,

Where clouds of incense rise,

Most ravishing the choral swell

Mount upwards to the skies.

And well I feel the magic power,

When skilled and cultured art

Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves

Around the captured heart.

But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung,

That old psalm tune hath still

A pulse of power beyond them all

My inmost soul to thrill

Those halting tones that sound to you,

Are not the tones I hear;

But voices of the loved and lost

There meet my longing ear.