Now wild round her arbour distractedly stand.
III.
Her golden-clothed fishes now deaden their hue:
The birds cease to warble—the wood-dove to coo:
The cypress spreads wide, and the willow droops low,
And the noon’s brightest ray can’t enliven Croneroe.
IV.
In the low-winding glen, all embosom’d in green,
Where the thrush courts her muse, and the blackbird is seen,
The rill as it flows, limpid, silent, and slow,