Aerial music oft I seem to hear In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear-- Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains, Then soothing soft, each dying note complains; High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays, Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze-- The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills, And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills; A lambent light pervades the dewy scene, Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green. Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine, Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine? For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing, An angel band their hallelujahs sing-- Its course, a form etherial this way bends, Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends! Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child! Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled; Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart, That still would claim thee as its dearest part-- That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear, And greet thy much loved image with a tear. In thy translated spirit sure I trace Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face; Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue, Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue; Their look of patient innocence still feel Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill, See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine, See thee for my maternal kiss incline-- With offer'd lip and fond extended arms, While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms! Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream! Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme; Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares, Loved object of her late regrets and tears-- Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent, On what mild purpose is thy errand bent? For thou couldst only leave the blest above On errands mild, and purposes of love. Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain? To bid me hope we soon shall meet again? Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say, "Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:" Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be While weary life divides my soul from thee. Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears-- Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe, Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow: To bid me sink on an adoring knee And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee! Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command, To press me with a harsh chastising hand, Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes And anguished bosom, can alone compose; And bad me know, in the conviction blest, Though here thy suffering body knew no rest-- That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given, By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.