And the heart of the Indian melts
At the tom-tom's am'rous sound.
Music hath pow'r on Greenland's ice;
When guileless hearts grow gladder,
And nimble feet rejoice at the sound
Of a dozen peas in a bladder.
Music hath pow'r over brutish hearts,
To shake them to their middle.
The nightingale dies on the poet's lute;
And a bear will dance to a fiddle.