you,

And all with tears the with'ring herbs bedew.

For thee the fading trees appear to mourn, And birds defer their songs till thy return: Night shades the groves, and all in silence lie,

All but the mournful Philomel and I: With mournful Philomel I join my strain, Of Tereus she, of Phaon I complain.

A spring there is, whose silver waters show,

Clear as a glass, the shining sands below: A flowery lotos spreads its arms above, 181 Shades all the banks, and seems itself a grove;

Eternal greens the mossy margin grace, Watch'd by the sylvan genius of the place. Here as I lay, and swell'd with tears the flood,

Before my sight a wat'ry virgin stood: She stood and cried, "O you that love in vain!

Fly hence, and seek the fair Leucadian

main.