I know that in me lie,—
As buried harmony
In the Lyre's chord await the master's hand,—
Powers, never to unclose
From dark and cold repose,
Save in thine air, my Home, my viewless land!
For in thy glorious bowers,
Dreading no changeful hours,
Dwells the pure Love, so faintly shadow'd here;
Finding its language known,
Ev'n to the deepest tone,
A native melody in that bright sphere!
And thou, O sunny shore!
Hast music, that no more
Shall trouble the worn heart with vague desires;
Like summer o'er the deep,
I know thy songs will sweep
Over those restless thoughts and wandering fires.
Where art thou? Tell me, where?
Home of the Good and Fair!
I seek thy trace in all things, yet in vain;
Thy meanings, bright, and high,
And earnest, in each eye,
An echo of thy sounds in every strain.
E 2
