Normale Version: To Jenny Lind
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To Jenny Lind

A melody with Southern passion fraught
I hear thee warble: ‘t is as if a bird
By intuition human strains had cought,
But whose pure breast no kindred feeling stirred:

Thy native song the hushed arena fills,
So wildly plaintive that I seem to stand
Alone, and see, from off the circling hills,
The bright horizon of the North expand!

High art is thus intact; and matchless skill
Born of intelligence and self-control, -
The graduated tone and perfect trill

Prove a restrained, but not a frigid soul;
Thine finds expression in such generous deeds,
That music from thy lips for human sorrow pleads!