’Mong thy pale folded leaves, the chant of bird,
Warbling her vesper hymn.
Not so, oh mournful tree!
When in their glory shone those gardens bright,
And plants of every clime, full fair to sight,
Smiled gayly there with thee.
Then thou did’st proudly wave
Thy graceful boughs above the queenly head
Of fair Semiramis, and soft dews shed,
Her beauteous brow to lave.