It comes down from the clouds to me,
On this sweet day of spring;
Methinks it is a melody
That angel-lips might sing.
Thou soaring minstrel! wingèd bard!
Whose path is the free air,
Whose song makes sunshine seem more bright,
And this fair world more fair!
I ask not what the strain may be,
Thus chanted at 'Heaven's gate'--
A hymn of praise, a lay of joy,
Or love-song to thy mate.
Vain were such idle questioning!
And 'tis enough for me
To feel thou singest still the notes
Which God gave unto thee.
Thence comes the glory of thy song,
And therefore doth it fall,
As falls the radiance of a star,
Gladdening and blessing all!
Oh! wondrous are the living lays
That human lips have breathed,
And deep the music men have won
From lyres with laurel wreathed:
But there's a spell on lip and lyre,
Sweet though their tones may be--
Some jarring note, some tuneless string,
Aye mars the melody.
The strings sleep 'neath too weak a touch,
Or break, 'neath one too strong;
Or we forget the master-chord
That should rule all our song.
When shall our spirit learn again
The lay once to it given?
When shall we rise, like thee, sweet bird!
And, singing, soar to heaven?