Classic Poem

WHICH SUNG AT MY WINDOW ONE MORNING IN LONDON .

Whence comest thou, oh wandering soul of song?
Round the celestial gates hast thou been winging,
And hearkening to the angels all night long
To brighten earth with somewhat of their singing?

Thou child of sunshine, spirit of the flowers!
Nature, through thee, with loving tongue rejoices,
Until these walls dissolve themselves to bowers,
And all the air is full of woodland voices.

The winds that slumbered in the fields of dew,
Float round me now with music on their pinions,
Such as I heard while yet my years were few,
By native streams, in boyhood's lost dominions.

And with the breath of morning on my brow,
I hear the accents of the few who love me;
Sing on, full heart! I am no exile now —
This is no foreign sky that smiles above me.

I hear the happy sounds of household glee,
The heart's own music, floating here to bless me,
And little ones who smiled upon my knee
Now clap the dimpled hands that would caress me.

Oh! music sweeter than the sweetest chime
Of magic bells by fairies set a-swinging;
I am no pilgrim in a foreign clime,
With these blest visions ever round me clinging.

I hear a voice no melody can reach;
Dear lips, speak on in your accustomed measure,
And teach my heart what you so well can teach,
How only love is earth's enduring pleasure.

Oh! music sweeter than the Arcadian's tune,
Wooing the dryads from the woodlands haunted;
Or than beneath the mellow harvest moon,
Trembles at midnight over lakes enchanted!

Oh! sweeter than the herald of the morn,
The clarion lark, that wakes the drowsy peasant,
Is this which thrills my breast, so else forlorn,
And with the Past and distant fills the Present.

Thus, with the music ringing in my heart,
I may awhile forget an exile's sorrow,
And, armed with courage, rise — and so depart;
But what sweet bird shall sing to me to-morrow?