The poem
O stay, harmonious and sweet sounds, that die In the long vaultings of this ancient fane! Stay, for I may not hear on earth again Those pious airs--that glorious harmony; Lifting the soul to brighter orbs on high, Worlds without sin or sorrow! Ah, the strain Has died--even the last sounds that lingeringly Hung on the roof ere they expired! And I Stand in the world of strife, amidst a throng, A throng that reckons not of death or sin! Oh, jarring scenes! to cease, indeed, ere long; The worm hears not the discord and the din; But he whose heart thrills to this angel song Feels the pure joy of heaven on earth begin!