There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre, Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire, But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings— Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings, Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers, And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers; Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees, And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze, While sunbeams are waking the rapturous lays Of dew-drops and birds, and yet all ’neath their blaze; Canst hover o’er ocean when storm it enthrones, And bear from the foam-crested surges their tones; When dark are the skies and the thunder-clouds lower, With the eagle’s bold flight to the mountain’s crest soar; The streams of the forest to their fountains canst wind, And caverns resounding in solitude find; Enshrined in thy spirit their voices canst keep, Sublimed by thine alchemy subtile and deep, At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep, And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven, Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given. O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below! The fount in thy bosom must here cease to flow; Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years, Thy harp-strings must perish ’mid wailings and tears; Thy lovers who bend at thy purity’s shrine, Enchained by the spells of thy carols divine, When no temple’s proud arches resound with thy strain, In the wilds of thy forests shall seek thee in vain; But when from thy tomb they despairing return, In lyres immortal thine echoes shall burn. Alas! that thy music should ever here die, Should leave the sad earth and ascend to the sky; Yet when thou art fled to the seraphim throng Will fancy yet list to thy glorified song, Will dream that no harp on the heavenly plains Has music so sweet as are there thy high strains. Though we never may list while on earth to thy lays, For the boon of thy being high Heaven we’ll praise; Where thy strains are ascending must Paradise be— Humanity’s scale is exalted in thee.