XVIII.

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a Voice! Not such as would have been a lover's choice, In such an hour, to break the air so still; No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill, Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree, 420 Those best and earliest lyres of Harmony, With Echo for their chorus; nor the alarm Of the loud war-whoop to dispel the charm; Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, Exhaling all his solitary soul, The dim though large-eyed winged anchorite, Who peals his dreary Paean o'er the night; But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill As ever started through a sea-bird's bill; And then a pause, and then a hoarse "Hillo! 430 Torquil, my boy! what cheer? Ho! brother, ho!" "Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his eye The sound. "Here's one," was all the brief reply.