Dost thou, oh love, deceive me

With echo's sweetest song?

Thou who all hearts beguilest,

All lips in love that meet,

Art thou in tones imprisoned,

Perchance, oh nymph! most fleet?

The voice grows louder, stronger,

And to my heart draws nigh,

And wakes with touch enchanted

The grief of years gone by.

O soul! thou tremblest in me,

Thyself a lyre art grown;

What spirit is't that holds thee

With feeling's quivering tone?

Throughout the chords it gloweth,

It whispers in my ear,

The universal spirit

Of harmony is near.

'Tis I, who ev'ry creature

To shape and form compel,

And pierce their inmost nature

With sympathetic spell.

In dark and flinty caverns

I am the echo strong,

I thrill, with softer cadence,

In Philomela's low song.

In sad laments I fill thee

With pity's tender pain,

And raise thy heart to heaven

In holy, prayerful strain.

'Tis I attune creation

To one mysterious note,

An everlasting chorus,

Where soul to soul doth float.

Through all thy heart a trembling,

By music wakened, steals,

And sorrow's gentle gladness,

And joy's sweet grief it feels.

Be hushed, O voice! I hearken,

Creation's chorus vast,

That heart to heart, and spirit

To spirit bindeth fast.

We, in one great emotion,

Are an eternal whole,

One tone where all are mingled,

The Godhead's echoed soul.

MATTHIAS CLAUDIUS.

[1740-1815.]

AN EVENING HYMN.

THE moon hath risen clear,

The golden stars appear,

In heaven that o'er us bendeth ;

Dark, still the forest stands,

And from the meadow-lands The strange, white mist ascendeth.

How calmly hill and dale

Lie in the twilight's veil,

That round them softly closes !

Like to a chamber still,