Their's is the purple-tinged evening ray,
With all the radiance of the morning sky;
Their's is the splendour of the risen day,
Enshrined in glory by the sun's bright eye.
For them the Zephyr fans the odorous gale,
For them the warbling streamlet softly flows,
For them the Dryads shade the verdant vale,
To them sweet Philomel attunes her woes.
To them no wakeful moonbeam shines in vain
On the dark bosom of the trackless wood,