Ethereal race, inhabitants of air,

Who hymn your God amid the secret grove,

Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair,

And raise majestic strains, or melt in love.

Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid!

With what soft woe they thrill the lover’s heart!

Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid

Who died of love these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone,

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;

Or he, the sacred Bard, who sat alone

In the drear waste and wept his people’s woes.

Such was the song which Zion’s children sung

When by Euphrates’ stream they made their plaint;

And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps to soothe a dying saint.

Methinks I hear the full celestial choir

Through Heaven’s high dome their awful anthem raise;

Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire

To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise.

Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind,

Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string,

Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined,

For till you cease my muse forgets to sing.