And he sings a song of thee
That hath music, but no glee.
Like a dun-plumed nightingale,[f25]
That, with never-sated wail,
Crieth Itys! Itys! aye,[n76]
As it scatters, in sweet flow,
The thick blossoms of its woe,[n77]
So singest thou to-day.
ANTISTROPHE VII.
Cassandra.
Ah! the clear-toned nightingale!