And music floats high in mid air,
As bands of angels hover'd there;
Four massive chains of purest gold,
A chrystal island seem to hold,
Gently waving it in air,
As angel spirits lingered there.
Like ocean, in a summer day,
When gentlest zephyrs with him play.--
Just curl the ripples on his breast,
Then sighing, sink with him to rest.
Beside the streams are pleasant bowers
Adorned with ever-greens and flowers,
Where insects float with gayest wing,
And birds with sweetest voices sing,
And happy spirits, free from care,
Pluck the wild flowers that blossom there;
Their forms are beauteous to behold,
White silken wings, spangled with gold,
Help them with easy grace to rise
From this fair world to yonder skies.
They come and go at even tide,
And sometimes on the sunbeams ride;
And when they wish for railroad cars.
They ride upon the shooting stars:
Firmly unite them in a train,
And skim along the aerial plain;
No locomotive do they need,
For their own will propels their speed.
The Aeolian harp, with plaintive wail,
Sighs responsive to each gale;