Music

Oh, let me die in Music's arms,
Clasped by some milder melody
Than that which thrills with soft alarms
The souls of Love and Ecstasy!
Until the tired heart in me
Is stilled of storms.
So let me die, a slave of slaves,
Within her train of lyric gold:
Borne onward through her vasty caves
Of harmony, that echo old
With all our sad hearts hope and hold,
And all life craves.
Come with the pleasures dear to men
In one long Triumph! what are they
Beside the one that sweeps us when
Her harp she smites? and far away
She bears us from the cares of day
Unto her glen?
Her hollow glen, where, like a star,
That, in deep heaven, thrills and throbs,
She sits, her wild harp heard afar,
Strung with the gold of grief that sobs,
And love that sighs, and, whispering, robs
All life of jar.
Beneath her all-compelling eye
Our souls lie naked: nothing seems
That is: but that which is not, by
Her magic, lives: and all our dreams
Are real, and, clothed in heavenly gleams,
Smile, leaning nigh.
The soul of love that can not die
Breathes on our eyelids starry fire;
And sorrow, with sweet lips that sigh,
Kisses our lips; and faith, the choir
Of all our hopes, its heart a lyre,
Goes singing by.