“Farewell, ye champions mountain-born!
Lo! to my lips I raise the horn,
And with the pledge of hydromel
I bid ye all a long farewell!
Now to the grove to gather flowers,
Late moisten’d by benignant showers,
My course I bend, while through the vale
Yet sounds the plaint of nightingale:
And when to-morrow’s moon shall roll
In silv’ry track athwart the pole,