Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix’d,
Sad proof of thy distressful state!
Of differing themes the veering song was mix’d,
And now it courted Love, now raving call’d on Hate.
With eyes upraised, as one inspir’d,
Pale Melancholy sat retir’d,
And from her wild sequester’d seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Pour’d through the mellow horn her pensive soul:
And dashing soft from rocks around,