A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed of the young—
Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful sister sung:—
“Ianthis! brother of my soul!—oh! where are now the days
That laugh’d among the deep-green hills, on all our infant plays?
When we two sported by the streams, or track’d them to their source,
And like a stag’s, the rocks along, was thy fleet, fearless course!—
I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,
But see thy bounding step no more—my brother and my friend!
“I come with flowers—for spring is come! Ianthis! art thou here?
I bring the garlands she hath brought, I cast them on thy bier.