Faint swelling through the streets. Then e’en the air
Hath strange and fitful murmurs of lament,
As if the viewless watchers of the land
Sigh’d on its hollow breezes! To my soul
The torrent-rush of battle, with its din
Of trampling steeds and ringing panoply,
Were, after these faint sounds of drooping woe,
As the free sky’s glad music unto him
Who leaves a couch of sickness.
Her. (with solemnity.) If to plunge