By thy still waters, through thy pastures green,
My soul make pure so long by sin defiled,
And, raised to heaven, acknowledge me thy child!
But if, Erinnys-like, the bloody Doom,
That here on earth pursued him to the tomb,
Lured by his sins relentless pass beyond,
And hunt him to the gulfs of woe profound,
Together let our erring sprites be hurled
Afar into some sad autumnal world—
Some land of withered leaves and sighing winds,