More dear and thrilling than the crowds' applause;
Even as the far-off murmur of the surge,
Heard at hush'd eve, is sweeter than the homage
Of waves tumultuous, dashing at your feet.
Mrs. Ellet.
6. Small voices, and an old guitar,
Winning their way to an unguarded heart.
Rogers—Italy.
7. When soft music comes to thine ear, as thou liest at night, thine eyes half closed in sleep, and thy soul as a stream flowing at pleasant sounds. It is like the rising breeze that whirls at first the thistle's beard, then flies dark-shadowy over the grass.
Ossian.