Thus to offend their majesty serene.
More careless we than wild birds of the plain;
But like a perfume poured out drop by drop,
So happiness is dried up in my breast.
Each summer, of these woods renews the crown,
The autumn winds for ay have withered mine.
With the breeze murmuring in their tangled boughs,
With the sweet warblings from their hanging nests,
With the soft ripple of their engirdling stream,
Now can I mingle nothing but a moan: