Choose ye the mildly breathing flute, And grave bassoon; choose too the fife, Are ye prepared? now lightly tread, As if by elfin minstrels led, And fling no sound upon the air, Shall rudely wake my slumb'ring fair. Softly! Now breathe the symphony; So gently breathe, the tones may vie In softness with the magic notes In visions heard; music that floats So buoyant, that it well may seem, With strains ethereal in her dream, One song of such mysterious birth, She doubts it comes from heaven or earth. Play on! my loved one slumbers still. Play on! she wakes not with the thrill Of joy produced by strains so mild; But fancy moulds them gay and wild: Now, as the music low declines, 'Tis sighing of the forest pines, Or 'tis the fitful varied roar Of distant falls or troubled shore. Now as the tone grows full, or sharp, 'Tis whisp'ring of th' Eolian harp. The viol swells now low, now loud, THE BUTTERFLY. [From the French.] To be born with the spring, and to die with the rose, It resembles Desire, which in search of new sweets, Alights on each object of beauty it meets, But restless-unsated with bliss of the earth, It returns to the heaven from whence it had birth. |