And gently peeped—"My mate is dead!"
Alas, poor Phil! how changed art thou!
The gayest then, the saddest now.
The dribbled seed, the limpid wave,
Would purchase, then, thy sweetest stave;
Or, if thou hadst some softer spell,
Thine ear had stolen from the shell
That sings amid the silver sand
That circles round thy native land,
'Twas only when, with wily art,