One eve he led me to this fane: Daylight on its last purple cloud Was lingering gray, and soon her strain The nightingale began; now loud, _1105 Climbing in circles the windless sky, Now dying music; suddenly 'Tis scattered in a thousand notes, And now to the hushed ear it floats Like field smells known in infancy, _1110 Then failing, soothes the air again. We sate within that temple lone, Pavilioned round with Parian stone: His mother's harp stood near, and oft I had awakened music soft _1115 Amid its wires: the nightingale Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: 'Now drain the cup,' said Lionel, 'Which the poet-bird has crowned so well With the wine of her bright and liquid song! _1120 Heardst thou not sweet words among That heaven-resounding minstrelsy? Heard'st thou not that those who die Awake in a world of ecstasy? That love, when limbs are interwoven, _1125 And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging, And music, when one beloved is singing, Is death? Let us drain right joyously The cup which the sweet bird fills for me.' _1130 He paused, and to my lips he bent His own: like spirit his words went Through all my limbs with the speed of fire; And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, Filled me with the flame divine, _1135 Which in their orbs was burning far, Like the light of an unmeasured star, In the sky of midnight dark and deep: Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken; _1140 And first, I felt my fingers sweep The harp, and a long quivering cry Burst from my lips in symphony: The dusk and solid air was shaken, As swift and swifter the notes came _1145 From my touch, that wandered like quick flame, And from my bosom, labouring With some unutterable thing: The awful sound of my own voice made My faint lips tremble; in some mood _1150 Of wordless thought Lionel stood So pale, that even beside his cheek The snowy column from its shade Caught whiteness: yet his countenance, Raised upward, burned with radiance _1155 Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light, Like the moon struggling through the night Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break With beams that might not be confined. I paused, but soon his gestures kindled _1160 New power, as by the moving wind The waves are lifted, and my song To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, And from the twinkling wires among, My languid fingers drew and flung _1165 Circles of life-dissolving sound, Yet faint; in aery rings they bound My Lionel, who, as every strain Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien