Attendant Fays, in mournful throng,
Nor trace the dance, nor raise the song;
While, for the shrill reed’s cheerful sound,
That led them lightly tripping round,
Beetles and drones, with hummings low,
Measure their footfalls sad and slow.—
Alas, no gentle sprite remains!
But foul fiends scour th’ affrighted plains,
Rob of their honours hills and lawns,
Trace the mean ditch that greedy yawns,