Too mighty for its bed, o’erswept a world?
Alas! those sounds for ever now are mute,
The battle—the debate—the amorous lute:
’Tis but a stream that weeps upon the shore—
’Tis but thy voice, still murmuring as of yore!
Still? ah! no more on sounding rocks to moan,
From their drained bed thy waters too are gone!
These beetling crags, these caverns void and wide,
These trees that boast no more their dewy pride,
The wandering hind, the bird with wearied wing