Winged seraph of the summer heaven,
Whose wondrous rapture, wild and long,
A hundred bards in vain have striven
To prison in a song!

How can they tell, with all their art,
What passions make thy glad throat swell,
That, throbbing at thy fiery heart,
Thou feel'st but canst not tell?

How can we picture in our dreams
The joys that thro' thy paen glow,
That joy that sours so high it seems
About to break in woe?

Sing on, wild bird, thy wild glad song,
That fills our eyes with sudden tears,
While back upon the fancy throng
Memories of vanished years!

Sing on, sing on, for ever free!
We cannot know what thou dost sing,
And better it should ever be
An undiscovered thing.