Where the fair Nymph her tresses wrung,
No form he saw of mortal mould;
It shone like ocean’s snowy foam;
Her ringlets waved in living gold,
Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb.
Her pearly comb the Siren took,
And careless bound her tresses wild;
Still o’er the mirror stole her look,
As on the wondering youth she smiled.
Like music from the greenwood tree,