Rent her fair locks and mantle rich,
Forlorn along that hateful ditch
Thy violated Naiad steals,
And in foul streams her shame conceals.
These broad roots bore a secret grove,
Where I was wont at eve to rove;
And, while low-thoughted cares retired,
Wrapp’d in fond musings, Fancy-fir’d,
Saw what alone the mind’s eye sees;
Heard other whisperings than the breeze;