A mournful plaint re-echoed from the vale:
The stagnant air blasts all the lily’s pride;
No more the roses’ perfume scents the gale.
A dew lethargic, noisome, humid, cold
Around the heavens its veil malignant spread!
And lo! the sun shorn of its rays of gold
In midst of vapour stood with disk blood-red!
And cold became the whilom jocund breast
Of ev’ry hero and of ev’ry maid;
Far towards the south the feather’d songsters prest,