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, |