Told him what sports, what toils were there pursued;
Or, wild and clear, the melody would sweep
Of girlish voices, warbling plaintive strains,
Half chant, half music, over woods and plains.
LXXIV.
Ah! how more lovely than the silence hushed,
That lists in horror for the foeman’s tread!
A tender joy our Father’s bosom flushed,—
The work was his that had these blessings spread;
The storm, that else had o’er the nation rushed,