And o’er the bank a poplar grew.
“Upon its bark this verse he traced:
‘Bear witness to the vow I make;
Thou, Xanthus, to thy source shalt haste,
E’er I my matchless maid forsake.
“‘No prince or peasant lad am I,
Nor crown nor crook to me belong;
But I will love thee till I die,
And die before I do thee wrong.’
“Back to thy source now, Xanthus, run, 150