Whence cometh these mournful euphonies?
Tis' the winds; the choir of sprights in the clefts
Or tis' the earth; the plight of her laboured back?
Whence cometh this flame dancing with our souls?
Tis' flicker of the nascent wings of love
Or tis' the pyre of rage that devours?
Tis' the dream of our blood, our death, our powers!