On First Hearing Caradori Sing.

Spirit of beauty, and of heavenly song!
No longer seek in vain, 'mid the loud throng,
'Mid the discordant tumults of mankind,
One spirit, gentle as thyself, to find.

Oh! listen, and suspend thy upward wings,
Listen - for, hark! 'tis Caradori sings;
Hear, on the cadence of each thrilling note,
Airs scarce of earth, and sounds seraphic float!

See, in the radiant smile that lights her face;
See, in that form, a more than magic grace;
And say (repaid for every labour past)
Beautiful spirit, thou art found at last!

William Lisle Bowles

William Lisle Bowles was an English cleric, poet, and critic who was born on 24th September 1762 and died on 7th April 1850. He is best known for his sonnets, which were highly praised by the Romantic poets. Bowles's work significantly influenced Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth. Besides his poetry, he wrote extensively on literary criticism and editing. Bowles spent much of his clerical career in Wiltshire and Gloucestershire.

William Lisle Bowles

Lacock Nunnery. June 24, 1837

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

The Egyptian Tomb.

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

On A Beautiful Landscape

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

From Idyl VII (Pictures From Theocritus - From Idyl I.)

William Lisle Bowles, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Lady.

Suggested By Hearing Her Voice During Services At Church.

At night, in visions, when my soul drew near
    The shadowy confines of the spirit land,
Wild, wondrous notes of song have met my ear,
    Wrung from their harps by many a seraph's hand;
And forms of light, too, more divinely fair
    Than Mercy's messenger to hearts that mourn,
On wings that made sweet music in the air,
    Have round me, in those hours of bliss, been borne,
And, filled with joy unutterable, I
Have deemed myself a born child of the sky.

And often, too, at sunset's magic hour,
    When musing by some solitary stream,
While thought awoke in its resistless pow'r,
    And restless Fancy wove her brightest dream:
Mysterious tongues, that were not of the earth,
    Have whispere...

George W. Sands

To A Lady Who Had Been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit's touch alone can know,
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.

Yes, and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,
So archly, that the heart may smile,
Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.

And thus thy wizard skill can weave
Music's soft twilight o'er the breast,
As mingling day and night, at eve,
Robe the far purpling hills for rest.

Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
And echoing memory shall prolong
Those woman tones, whose sweet control
Melts joy and sorrow into song.

The tinted sea-shell, borne away
Far from the ocean's pebbly shore,
Still loves to hum the choral lay,
The whispering mermaid taught of yore.

T...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

The Carillon

Alone
I sit in the dusk and see
Surely the living faces, dear to me,
Of comrades who have thrown
All that they had, the fruit of all desire,
Upon an altar fire.

They heard,
Above all clamour of the crowd,
The music of their own hearts throbbing loud
Until the air was stirred
Into a summoning harmony; and so
We saw them rise, and go.

The sound,
That love set ringing in those years
Of agony, exultation, voiceless fears,
And hopes now underground,
Shall not be silenced; it is thrilling yet,
And we shall not forget.

But clear
The mellow tone of mingled notes,
Triumph and sorrow made one spirit, floats
To my prophetic ear;
That is their music echoing, echoing still
From our remembering hill.

John Le Gay Brereton

On Hearing "The Messiah" (Performed In Gloucester Cathedral, Sept. 18, 1835.)

Oh, stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die
In the long vaultings of this ancient fane!
Stay, for I may not hear on earth again
Those pious airs, that glorious harmony;
Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high,
Worlds without sin or sorrow!
Ah, the strain
Has died, ev'n the last sounds that lingeringly
Hung on the roof ere they expired!
And I,
Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng,
A throng that recks not or of death, or sin!
Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long;
The worm hears not the discord and the din;
But he whose heart thrills to this angel song,
Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin!

William Lisle Bowles

The Legend Of St Cecilia And The Angel.

'Twas when, O meekest eve! thy shadows dim
Were slowly stealing round,
With more impassioned sound
Divine Cecilia sang her vesper hymn,
And swelled the solemn chord
In hallelujahs to thy name, O Lord!
And now I see her raise
Rapt adoration's gaze,
With lips just opening, and with humid eyes
Uplifted; whilst the strain
Now sinks, now swells again;
Now rising, seems to blend with heaven's own harmonies.
But who is that, divinely fair,
With more than mortal beauty in his mien;
With eyes of heavenly hue and glistening hair,
His white and ample wings half seen!
O radiant and immortal guest!
Why hast thou left thy seraph throng,
On earth the triumph to attest
Of Beauty, Piety, and Song!

William Lisle Bowles

On Mozart.

Oh! still, as with a seraph's voice, prolong
The harmonies of that enchanting song,
Till, listening, we might almost think we hear,
Beyond this cloudy world, in the pure sphere
Of light, acclaiming hosts the throne surrounding,
The long hosannahs evermore resounding,
Soft voices interposed in pure accord,
Breathing a holier charm. Oh! every word
Falls like a drop of silver, as the strain,
In winding sweetness, swells and sinks again.
Sing ever thus, beguiling life's long way,
As here, poor pilgrims of the earth, we stray;
And, lady, when thy pilgrimage shall end,
And late the shades of the long night descend,
May sister seraphs welcome with a song,
And gently say, Why have you stayed so long?

William Lisle Bowles