What woke the buried sound that lay
    In Memnon's harp of yore?
What spirit on its viewless way
    Along the Nile's green shore?
—Oh! not the night, and not the storm,
    And not the lightning's fire—
But sunlight's touch—the kind—the warm—
    This woke the mystic lyre!
    This, this, awoke the lyre!

What wins the heart's deep chords to pour
    Their music forth on life,
Like a sweet voice, prevailing o'er
    The sounds of torrent strife?
—Oh! not the conflict midst the throng,
    Not e'en the triumph's hour;—
Love is the gifted and the strong
    To wake that music's power!
    His breath awakes that power!