Hushed, or on Charon’s strand
Urging in vain petition dolorous,
To pass where Pan, his boyish pipings done,
Stands wistful, while the nymphs, by fear made bold,
Cling with their long lithe arms about his knees.
Wail thou, great Muse! or loose from Acheron
Some worthy bearer of the singing bough
Whose madness whirls me now
On melting wings too near the southern sun.
Yet why for aught on earth should grief be loud,