When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet and only took snuff.

Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774): Retaliation. Line 145.

Perish that thought! No, never be it said

That Fate itself could awe the soul of Richard.

Hence, babbling dreams! you threaten here in vain!

Conscience, avaunt! Richard's himself again!

Hark! the shrill trumpet sounds to horse! away!

My soul's in arms, and eager for the fray.

Colley Cibber (1671-1757): Richard III. (altered). Act v. Sc. 3.

And when a damp

Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand

The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew

Soul-animating strains,—alas! too few.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): Scorn not the Sonnet.

Besides, this Duncan

Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been

So clear in his great office, that his virtues

Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against

The deep damnation of his taking-off;

And pity, like a naked new-born babe,

Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed

Upon the sightless couriers of the air,

Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,

That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur

To prick the sides of my intent, but only

Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself,

And falls on the other.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Macbeth. Act i. Sc. 7.