III.

On, exulting in his magic, Swept the gifted peasant on-- Though his feet were on the greensward, Light from heaven around him shone; At his conjuration, demons Issued from their darkness drear; Hovering round on silver pinions, Angels stoop'd his songs to hear; Bow'd the Passions to his bidding, Terror gaunt, and Pity calm; Like the organ pour'd his thunder, Like the lute his fairy psalm.