"The Spirit of My Song" (1850)
Poety by
Metta Victoria Fuller
"Singing Sybil"
Music by
Stephen Collins Foster, 1826-1864

1.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?
You will know her by a wreath,
  Woven all of starry light,
That is lying mid her her --
  Braided hair as dark as night.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?

2.
A short hand of radiant summers
  Is upon her forehead laid,
Twining half in golden sunlight,
  Sleeping half in dreamy shade:
Five white fingers clasp a lyre,
  Five its silv'ry strings awake,
And bewildering to her the soul
  In the music that they make.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?

3.
Though her glances sleep like shadows
  'Neath each falling, silken lash,
Yet, at night that wakes resentment,
  They magnificently flash.
Though you loved such dewey dream-light,
  And such glance of sweet suprise,
You could never bear the scorn
  Of those proud and brilliant eyes.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?

4.
There's a sweet and winning cunning
  In her bright lip's crimson hue,
And a flitting tint of roses
  From her soft cheek gleaming though:
Do you think that you have met her?
  She is young and pure and fair,
And she wears a wreath of starlight
  In her braided ebon hair.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?

5.
Often at her feet I'm sitting,
  With my head upon her knee,
While she tells me dreams of beauty
  In low words of melody:
And, when my unskilful fingers
  Strive her silvery lyre to wake,
She will smooth my tresses, smiling
  At the discord which I make.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?

6.
But of late days I have missed her --
  The bright being of my love --
And perchance she's stolen pinions
  And has floated up above.
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?
Tell me, have you ever met her --
  Met the spirit of my song?
Have her wave-like footsteps glided
  Through the city's worldly throng?