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August 5, 1849

Vast fount of sound--whence is thy power?
Æolus breathes in thee,
In thunder bursts, or swelling low
In softest melody!

 

What time thou wak'st thy voice, we think
The whirlwind blast is come,
Joined by a thousand trumpets loud,
Each with its rolling drum!

 

As flame wakes flame when cities burn,
Far-spreading, wide, and strong,
So when thou speak'st the air becomes
One living sheet of song!

 

What time thou wak'st thy voice, we think
The whirlwind blast is come,
Joined by a thousand trumpets loud,
Each with its rolling drum!

 

As flame wakes flame when cities burn,
Far-spreading, wide, and strong,
So when thou speak'st the air becomes
One living sheet of song!

 

Thy notes are notes of joy! and now
They tell of deepest woe;
Alternate given, as frail man finds,
In this sad world below!

 

Were echo dead, and song no more,
Nor mirth nor mournful strain,
Fresh from her caves thou would'st awake
The trembling tones again!

 

Exhaustless is thy power! thy might
No diminution knows;
As much of song remains, though now
Thou slumb'rest in repose!

 

'Tis silence all! as is the grave
Where fond ones claim a tear,
They are not dead--they only sleep
As music sleepeth here!