Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound;
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles,
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.
But happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior’s festival,
Moving a queen midst the radiant throng,
Was she, th’ inspired one, the maid of song!
The lute he loved on her arm she bore,
As she rush’d in her joy to the crowded shore;