Verse > Anthologies > Hunt and Lee, eds. > The Book of the Sonnet
Hunt and Lee, comps.  The Book of the Sonnet.  1867.
III. To Jenny Lind
By Henry Theodore Tuckerman (1813–1871)
A MELODY with Southern passion fraught
  I hear thee warble: ’t is as if a bird
By intuition human strains had caught,
  But whose pure breast no kindred feeling stirred:
Thy native song the hushed arena fills,        5
  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,—        10
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!

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