On Hearing Triumphant Music

That joyous strain,
Wake — wake again!
O'er the dead stillness of my soul it lingers.
Ring out, ring out
The music-shout!
I hear the sounding of thy flying fingers,
And to my soul the harmony
Comes like a freshening sea.

Again, again!
Farewell, dull pain;
Thou heart-ache, rise not while those harp-strings quiver;
Sad feelings, hence!
I feel a sense
Of a new life come like a rushing river
Freshening the fountains parch'd and dry
That in my spirit lie.

That glorious strain!
Oh! from my brain
I see the shadows flitting like scared ghosts!
A light, a light
Shines in to-night
Round the good angels trooping to their posts —
And the black cloud is rent in twain
Before the ascending strain.

It dies away —
It will not stay —
So sweet — so fleeting. Yet to me it spake
Strange peace of mind
I could not find
Before that triumph-strain the silence brake.
So let it ever come to me
With an undying harmony.