On Hearing Ole Bull Improvise on the Violin

What note is this of infinite appeal
That wakes beneath thy hand's inspired control?
Is it a prayer from man's most secret soul
To those dim gods Death only can reveal, —
Whose hands we know can wound, yet hope may heal?
Hark! — for between the prayer and the prayer's goal,
From far away, where unknown planets roll.
Surely I hear — or do I subtly feel —

Down all the deep, untravelled, star-watched way,
Faint as the wind at dawn of a June day.
Steal some divine response? Ah, yes! 't is here.
And prayer is turned to passionate triumphing,
And in thy music's moon-thrilled atmosphere
My soul drinks deep from some immortal spring.