Charles Harpur

IN VAIN, when music’s seraph-fire
    Runs kindling through the air,
Making it such as gods respire,
    (And gods perhaps are there!)

In vain would words of subtlest wit
    Reveal, as on they roll,
The clouds of glory it hath lit
    Like sunrise in the soul!

Like sunrise when its conquering glow
    Smites through the vapours cold,
Till all their ragged inlets flow
    With floods of burning gold.

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