For here the exile met from every clime,
And spoke in friendship every distant tongue:
Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung,
Were but divided by the running brook;
And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung,
On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook,
The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning-hook.
V.
Nor far some Andalusian saraband
Would sound to many a native roundelay—