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When Haydn first conceived that air divine, The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine. The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs, And near the sky her earth-born carol sings, Poured on his ear a higher, purer note, And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat. To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love; And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay The Nightingale poured forth at close of day; For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth, To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth. Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne The melody of that primeval morn, And all his soul was music,–O, to him The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn! But was there, then, one human voice that brought Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought, In tones, interpreting in worthy guise The varied notes of Eden's melodies?– O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.
December 1, 1851.
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