O’er the green sward, the dam, bereft of hope,
Beats with her cloven hoof the indented dale,
Each spot exploring, if, perchance, she still
May trace her idol; through the umbrageous grove,
With well-known voice, she moans; and oft reseeks,
Urged by a mother’s love, the accustomed stall.
Nor shade for her, nor dew-distended glebe,
Nor stream soft gliding down its banks abrupt,
Yields aught of solace; nor the carking care
Averts, that preys within; nor the gay young