Ethereal race, inhabitants of air, <br />Who hymn your god amid the secret grove; <br />Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair, <br />And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. <br /> <br />Those tender notes, how kindly they upraid, <br />With what soft woe they thrill the lover's heart! <br />Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid, <br />Who died for love, these sweet complainings part. <br /> <br />But hark! that strain was of a graver tone, <br />On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws; <br />Or he, the sacred Bard, who sat alone <br />In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. <br /> <br />Such was the song which Zion's children sung, <br />When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint; <br />And to such sadly solemn notes are strung <br />Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint. <br /> <br />Methinks I hear the full celestial choir, <br />Through Heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise; <br />Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire <br />To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise. <br /> <br />Let me, ye wandering spirits of the wind, <br />Who, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, <br />Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined, <br />For, till you cease, my Muse forgets to sing.<br /><br />James Thomson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/on-olus-s-harp/
