Of the last strain, then lifts on high
  The wings of the weak melody,
  Till some new strain of feeling bear
  The song, and all the woods are mute;
  When there is heard through the dim air
  The rush of wings, and rising there,
  Like many a lake-surrounded flute,
  Sounds overflow the listener's brain
  So sweet, that joy is almost pain.

SEMICHORUS I
  There those enchanted eddies play
  Of echoes, music-tongued, which draw,
  By Demogorgon's mighty law,
  With melting rapture, or sweet awe,
  All spirits on that secret way,
  As inland boats are driven to Ocean
  Down streams made strong with mountain-thaw;
  And first there comes a gentle sound
  To those in talk or slumber bound,
  And wakes the destined; soft emotion
  Attracts, impels them; those who saw
  Say from the breathing earth behind
  There steams a plume-uplifting wind