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But deemed that spirits of the air
Had left their native homes in heaven,
And that the music warbled there
To earth a while was given?

For with that music came the thought
That life’s young purity was theirs,
And love, all artless and untaught,
Breathed in their woodland airs.

And when, sweet boy! thy baby fingers
Wake sounds of heaven’s own harmony,
How welcome is the thought that lingers
Upon thy lyre and thee!

It calls up visions of past days,
When life was infancy and song
To us; and old remembered lays,
Unheard, unheeded long,

Revive in joy or grief within us,
Like lost friends wakened from their sleep,
With all their early power to win us
Alike to smile or weep.

And when we gaze upon that face,
Blooming in innocence and truth,
And mark its dimpled artlessness,
Its beauty and its youth;