“The shrill cicalas, people of the pine,

Making their summer lives one ceaseless song,

Were the sole echoes, save my steed’s and mine,

And vesper-bell’s that rose the boughs along;

The spectre huntsman of Onesti’s line,

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng,

Which learned from this example not to fly

From a true lover, shadowed my mind’s eye.”