Smooth’d the green sod, and strew’d it o’er and o’er.
Hither, each morn, came Irza; on those flowers
She wept, she pray’d, she sang away her hours.
So mourns the nightingale on poplar spray *,
Her callow brood by shepherds borne away,
Weeps all the night, and from her green retreat
Fills the wide groves with warblings sad as sweet.
And still fresh woes succeed. She feels again
Mysterious pangs, nor doubts her cause of pain.
Too sure, while lost in maniac state she lay,