Then in the form of age we find
Somewhat surpassing earthly kind.
Now forth his harp that minstrel drew,
And o’er the chords his fingers threw,
The while beneath their lighter sway
Murmur’d the scarcely-bidden lay,
In soft half-warbled cadence stealing
O’er the melting soul of feeling:—
But when he caught the transport high
Which mark’d the kindling melody,