And a sweet voice of sorrow told the dell
Where sat the lone wood-pigeon.
But ere long,
All sense of these things faded, as the spell
Breathing from that high gorgeous tale grew strong
On my chain’d soul. ’Twas not the leaves I heard:—
A Syrian wind the lion-banner stirr’d,
Through its proud floating folds. ’Twas not the brook
Singing in secret through its grassy glen;—
A wild shrill trumpet of the Saracen