Answer me, Jordan, why thy crooked tide
So often wanders from his nearest way,
As though some other way thy streams would slide,
And join salute the place where something lay?
And you, sweet birds, that, shaded from the ray,
Sit carolling, and piping grief away,
The while the lambs to hear you dance and play—
Tell me, sweet birds, what is it you so fain would say?
And thou, fair spouse of Earth, that every year
Gett’st such a numerous issue of thy bride,