Before its rush the crags are driven--
The oaks uprooted, whirl'd away--
Aw'd, yet in awe all wildly glad'ning,
The startled wanderer halts below;
He hears the rock-born waters mad'ning,
Nor wits the source from whence they go,--
So, from their high, mysterious Founts along,
Stream on the silenc'd world the Waves of Song!

Knit with the threads of life, for ever,
By those dread Powers that weave the woof,--
Whose art the singer's spell can sever?
Whose breast has mail to music proof?
Lo, to the Bard, a wand of wonder
The Herald[8] of the Gods has given:
He sinks the soul the death-realm under,
Or lifts it breathless up to heaven--
Half sport, half earnest, rocking its devotion
Upon the tremulous ladder of emotion.

As, when the halls of Mirth are crowded,
Portentous, on the wanton scene--
Some Fate, before from wisdom shrouded,
Awakes and awes the souls of Men--
Before that Stranger from ANOTHER,
Behold how THIS world's great ones bow--
Mean joys their idle clamour smother,
The mask is vanish'd from the brow--
And from Truth's sudden, solemn flag unfurl'd,
Fly all the craven Falsehoods of the World!