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V.

And now he struck the sounding strings,
Forth came a soft and plaintive strain,
Wild, sweet unearthly murmurings
That rose and fell and rose again,
Like the wind sweeping o'er the main.
The old man then inclined his head

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His life seemed gone,—his spirit fled,—
So deeply was attention hung
On the notes that from his harp-strings rung.
The strain the old man faultless found,
His ear could catch no jarring sound.
A deeper, nobler prelude ran,
Ere thus the Scald his tale began.