25
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life,
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,
Whose branches the air plays among, but not
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; 30
But blasted and all wearily they stand,
One to another clinging; their weak boughs
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake
Beneath its blasts—­a weatherbeaten crew!

CHORUS: 
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, 35
But more melodious than the murmuring wind
Which through the columns of a temple glides?

A: 
It is the wandering voice of Orpheus’ lyre,
Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; 40
But in their speed they bear along with them
The waning sound, scattering it like dew
Upon the startled sense.

CHORUS: 
Does he still sing? 
Methought he rashly cast away his harp
When he had lost Eurydice.

A: 
Ah, no! 45
Awhile he paused.  As a poor hunted stag
A moment shudders on the fearful brink
Of a swift stream—­the cruel hounds press on
With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,—­
He plunges in:  so Orpheus, seized and torn 50
By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief,
Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,
And wildly shrieked ‘Where she is, it is dark!’
And then he struck from forth the strings a sound
Of deep and fearful melody.  Alas! 55
In times long past, when fair Eurydice
With her bright eyes sat listening by his side,
He gently sang of high and heavenly themes. 
As in a brook, fretted with little waves
By the light airs of spring—­each riplet makes 60
A many-sided mirror for the sun,
While it flows musically through green banks,
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh,
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy
And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, 65
The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. 
But that is past.  Returning from drear Hell,
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone,
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. 
Then from the deep and overflowing spring 70
Of his eternal ever-moving grief
There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song. 
’Tis as a mighty cataract that parts
Two sister rocks with waters swift and strong, 75
And casts itself with horrid roar and din
Adown a steep; from a perennial source
It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air
With loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar,
And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray