Those who loved him, mourns them still;
On the stone his sharp beak whetting,
While the air his wailings fill.
Where are now the youths who bred him,
To pronounce their mother tongue,—
Where the gentle maids who fed him,
And who built his nest when young?
All, alas! are lifeless lying,
Stretch’d upon their grassy bed;
Nor can all his mournful crying,