The soul that lingers in the silent strings
Rises in rhythmic magic by thy hand,
A tuneful vassal e'er at thy command,
A soul invisible that weeps or sings.

Melodious strains, like passing angels' wings,
Seem from the speaking maple to be fanned
While graver meaning, mystical and grand,
A matchless grace unto our senses brings.

Ah! when those strains fall gently on my ear,
I breathe in ravishment and seem to hear
Seraphic choirs that worship and adore,
And I, a skeptic, marveling in surprise,
Feel wondrous tears of pity fill my eyes,
And, penitent, believe in God once more.