At thy setting, all the birds of thy absence complain,
And we die, all die, till the morning comes again.
Phœbus, god beloved by men!
Idol of the eastern kings,
Awful as the god who flings
His thunder round, and the lightning wings;
God of songs, and Orphean strings,
Who to this mortal bosom brings
All harmonious heavenly things!
Thy drowsy prophet to revive,