Did range this feathered minstrel’s dulcet tongue;
So that no note, or high or low is found,
That by its tuneful throat was left unsung.
Sometimes I heard a flute’s low silvery plaining,
And then anon a shepherd’s reed was blown;
And then a far-off clarion’s exclaiming
Aroused my spirit with its martial tone;
Which died ere long into a tender moan—
The wail of Indian lover, languishing
Beneath a guarded princess’ lattice high.