His light baton the leader waves, The violinist draws his bow, And round me streams of music flow, Wherein my joyful spirit laves. O dulcet sounds! Well can I tell That born ye were in Italy; Whose tuneful measures have, for me, A sweetness inexpressible. O dulcet sounds, upon whose wing My spirit mounts to other sphere, Is it a choir divine I hear, And angels that in rapture sing? Ye seize my soul in swift embrace, And bear it from the things of earth; A being of celestial birth Am I, with Heaven my dwelling-place. |