The birds had shelter’d from the scorching ray;
Hush’d were their melodies—and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada’s lay:
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain,
To seek the maid who but despised his pain,
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion, roved:
“Why pine for her,” the slighted wanderer cried,
“By whom thou art not loved?” and thus replied
An echo’s murmuring voice—“Thou art not loved!”