Welcome to thee, Ole Bull!
A welcome warm and free!
For heart and memory are full
Of thy rich minstrelsy.
’Tis music for the tuneful rills
To flow to from the verdant hills;
Music such as first on earth
Gave to the Aurora birth.
Music for the leaves to dance to;
Music such as sunbeams glance to;
Treble to the ocean’s roar,
On some old resounding shore.
Silvery showers from the fountains;
Mists unrolling from the mountains;
Lightning flashing through a cloud,
When the winds are piping loud.
Music full of warbling graces,
Like to birds in forest places,
Gushing, trilling, whirring round,
Mid the pine–trees’ murm’ring sound.
The martin scolding at the wren.
Which sharply answers back again,
Till across the angry song
Strains of laughter run along.
Now leaps the bow with airy bound,
Like dancer springing from the ground,
And now like autumn wind comes sighing,
Over leaves and blossoms dying.
The lark now singeth from afar
Her carol to the morning–star,
A clear soprano rising high,
Ascending to the inmost sky.
And now the scattered tones are flying,
Like sparks in midnight darkness dying;
Gems from rockets in the sky,
Falling—falling—gracefully.
Now wreathed and twined—but still evolving
Harmonious oneness in revolving;
Departing with the faintest sigh,
Like ghost of some sweet melody.
As on a harp with golden strings,
All nature breathes to thee,
And with her thousand voices sings
The infinite and free.
Of beauty she is lavish ever;
Her urn is always full;
But to our earth she giveth never
Another Ole Bull.