Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, Faintly shewn by moonlight gleam, Where the lone wanderer owns my power In shadows dire that substance seem. In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, And pausing silence makes more dread; In music breathing from below Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move--unknown am fear'd! Fancy's wildest dreams I weave; And oft by bards my voice is heard To die along the gales of eve. When the voice ceased, a mournful strain, played with exquisite expression, sounded from a distant horn; sometimes the notes floated on the air in soft undulations--now they swelled into full and sweeping melody, and now died faintly into silence, when again they rose and trembled in sounds so sweetly tender, as drew tears from Adeline, and exclamations of rapture from the Marquis: he threw his arm round her, and would have pressed her towards him; but she liberated herself from his embrace, and with a look, on which was impressed the firm dignity of virtue, yet touched with sorrow, she awed him to forbearance. Conscious of a superiority which he was ashamed to acknowledge, and endeavouring to despise the influence which he could not resist, he stood for a moment the slave of virtue, though the votary of vice. Soon, however, he recovered his confidence, and began to plead his love; when Adeline, no longer animated by the spirit she had lately shown, and sinking beneath the languor and fatigue which the various and violent agitations of her mind produced, entreated he would leave her to repose.