Sonnet 56

There came three minstrels in the days' of old,
To the Avaric savage—in their hands
Their own slavonian citharas they hold:
"And who are ye!" the haughty Khan demands;
Frowning from his barbaric throne, "and where—
Say where your warriors—where your sisters be."
"We are slavonians, monarch! and came here
From the far borders of the baltic sea:
We know no wars—no arms to us belong—
We cannot swell your ranks—'tis our employ
Alone to sing the dear domestic song"—
And then they touch'd their harps in doubtful joy.
"Slaves!" said the tyrant—"these to prison lead,
For they are precious hostages indeed."