I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve.
My slight of music, rousing her defence,
But proved my love too weak to rival it.
“My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book;
Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life.
What else could sway the soul, yet leave love free
To think and choose and do?’—What different moods,”
She added, while before us play’d the band,
“These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds!
That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love;