A dreamer midst the stars doth dwell, Known to the gods as Israphel. His heart-strings are a lute; And when, the magic notes outpouring, He parts his lips, the gods, adoring, Listen in transport mute, Subdued and softened by the spell Of the dreamer, Israphel! And mortals, when they hear him, start, And, full of wonder, call him—Art, And, fain his gift to gain, Essay to imitate the fashion Of his rare song, and breathe its passion,— But, ah, they strive in vain; For his song is more than art, Whose lute-strings are his heart! And others, unto whom he wings The sweetest melodies he sings, In worship, name him—Love; Yet longing the pure strain to capture, When at the very height of rapture, A sadness oft approve, And fancy, strangely, that he wrings The music from their own heart-strings!
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