With the sweet melancholy of her strains.
So longed he, and so played; changing at times
To lands yet lonelier, and harsher climes;
Arctic ice-fields crossed, forded snowy Don,
Camped on Scythian heaths, where yews keep-on
Eternal pall of frost;—always in quest
Of postern into Hell, whence he might wrest
Audience of its Lords, and with his tale
Of unreal gifts, all pre-ordained to fail,
Oblige them to repeat for very shame