No, Not More Welcome.
By Thomas Moore
No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full choir of heaven is near,--
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken.
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell--
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whispered balm--'twas sunshine spoken!--
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.