And the Russians with musical horns from the North,
Transporting enough to make Orpheus mute:
As loud as the trumpet, as soft as the lute,
[p30] They fill’d every bosom, absorbing them quite,
And the reeds seem’d to burden the air with delight.
Such strains have rung round me in seasons gone by,
When escaped from the cloister I mused with a sigh,
And listed awhile to the balm-shedding breeze,
As it fitfully swept through the sedge and the trees,
And plaintively whisper’d with musical power,