Ah! mute is Thorney’s matin bell,
And hushed the holy singing
That rose from out the hermits’ cell,
In tuneful numbers ringing!
Delightsome was that isle of yore,
Where apples without measure
Did bloom, and Phœbus panted o’er
The vineyard’s purple treasure!
Beneath the bosom of the eyot
In pleasing holts embower’d,