“Its fragrant breath is as on billows oil;
It calms the troubled waves of memory’s tide.”
The grateful offer seemed to reconcile
The peaceful emblem to the warrior’s pride:
He fills the bowl—he wakes the kindling fire—
And o’er his head the curling clouds aspire.
LXXIV.
And whilst he sits, the sylvan muse will string
Her rustic harp to wake no gentle strain