Murmurs with drowsy hum;
The faithful turtles, perched on oak-trees near,
Moaning their mates’ sad doom.
And ever in the distance her sweet song
Murmurs lorn Philomel;
While the hoar forest’s echoing glades prolong
Her love and music well.
And 'midst the grass slow creeps the rivulet,
In whose bright limpid stream
The blue sky and the world of boughs are met,