He sang the airs of olden times
In soft, low tones to sacred rhymes,
  Devotional, but quaint;
His fingers touched the viol’s strings,
And at their gentle vibratings
The glory of an angel’s wings
  Hung o’er that aged saint!

His thin, white locks, like silver threads
On which the sun its radiance sheds,
  Or like the...

Blind as the song of birds,
  Feeling its way into the heart,
Or as a thought ere it hath words,—
  As blind thou art:

Or as a little stream
  A dainty hand might guide apart,
Or Love—young Love’s delicious dream—
  As blind thou art:

Or as a slender bark,
  Where summer’s varying breezes start,
Or blossoms...