Came it not like enchantment on the soul,
Chaining the very life pulse with delight!
Each feeling lost in one delicious dream,
All hush'd in that deep harmony. If yet
This earth can boast a trace of Paradise,
One relic of its former state, 'tis that
Which yet survives in music's hallow'd sigh.
If ever that sweet spirit, whose rich breath,
Is on the evening gale which murmurs by,
Fraught with the nightingale and wood lark's song,
Or wafting from the moonlight waves soft notes
Of airy melody from the wind wak'd shells
In the blue waters of the sea, ere gave
His power, his magic power, to human hand,
He gifted thee! Thine every witching tone,
In which the soul of music lives; light sounds,
Sweet as a lover's serenade, or wild
As minstrelsy that thrills a minstrel's dream,
Or the deep swell of inspiration's glow—
All are thine own, Cecilia of our isle!