And like a passing angel's lay,
And like a sound from echo's mouth,
How softly dies the strain away?
The distant listener might have deemed,
(So sweet the choral voices seemed,
So like a soft ethereal hymn
Heard far and faint by twilight dim)
If half his griefs he might forget
That earth and heaven had kissed and met.
Advancing toward the grass-grown bank,
In many a gaudy group and rank
The throng proceeds; the holy train
Wake into life the sleeping strain,
And loud and deep its numbers roll,
Like song mysterious o'er the soul.