Whence comes this thrilling music. Borne on the wings of night? So soft, so sweet, it seems the sound Made by a spirit's flight. It steals upon the waters, It lingers on the air, As if it sought companionship With sister-spirits there.
Whence is its journeying? whither Will its sweet sound die away? It falls, then rising, falls again, So tender, yet so gay, That like to fairies' music, It sports upon the gale, Or like, perchance, the melting strains Told in a lover's tale.
O! on the wings of fancy My soul is borne along, Gay voices ring upon the air, Bright visions round me throng, Aiding to bear me onward, To the land of bright romance, To meet the thrilling witchery Of beauty's magic glance.
Dark eyes around me flashing, Drink many a poison in; And wreathing smiles and kindling cheeks Flash forth the soul within, With raven tresses floating O'er many a snowy brow, And hearts that to a jeweled crown Would scarcely deign to bow.
I see the moon- lit waters Sleep 'neath a starry sky, And slowly sweeps the mid-night breeze On lagging pinions by; As if so much of beauty, Were resting 'neath its wing, It longed to pause and breathe a sigh O'er every sleeping thing.
Hark! to the swift gondola, Hark! to the muffled oar, They skim the surface of the waves, They glance along the shore. Unheeding and unheeded They keep their trackless course, As if some secret thought impelled With a resistless force.
Still in each darkened passage They find their hidden track; There, where the swift gondola casts Not even a shadow back. Bears it the dead or dying? Is crime upon the tide?— That hearse-like canopy might well Some direful secret hide.
Before yon lofty palace 'Tis floating now at rest; Bear the calm waters fearful things Upon their tranquil breast? For lo! it takes its station In the column's shadowy space; Holds it such sympathy with gloom, To seek no brighter place?
Yet hark! those strains of music, So thrilling—so divine! Come they from where yon sparkling waves, In fitful radiance shine? Or gives yon dark gondola Such magic to the ear? How fall and rich and passionate, 'Tis swelling upwards there!
Is it a lover breathing Words by devotion made, K"o other ear but love's may hear The midnight serenade? For this he seeks the shadow, For this he skims the wave, And the secret mission in his heart, Is hid as in a grave.
Can the witching heart of beauty Refuse to hear the call, To pay devotion what it owes, And render thrall for thrall? O! love, and true love only, Dwells in the silent heart; The haughty show, the outward pomp Can bear in it no part.
The strain has ceased. O, music! How thou dost play with thought! Can dreams of Venice to us bring, The light of things forgot? Gone is thy day of glory, Bird of the folded wings; City of griefs! thou art indeed The grave of glorious things.
