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A thousand trills and quivering sounds In airy circles o'er us fly, Till, wafted by a gentle breeze, They faint and languish by degrees, And at a distance die.

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

By magic numbers and persuasive sound.

I hear a sound so fine there's nothing lives 'Twixt it and silence.

Parent of sweetest sounds, yet mute forever.

And filled the air with barbarous dissonance.

Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds, At which the universal host up sent A shout that tore hell's concave, and beyond Frighted the reign of Chaos and old Night.

Their rising all at once was as the sound Of thunder heard remote.

To all proportioned terms he must dispense And make the sound a picture of the sense.

The murmur that springs From the growing of grass.

The sound must seem an echo to the sense.

I did never know so full a voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true, 'The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.'

What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak!

Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound.

My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred, For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard.