Ho! mourn with me, ye nymphs, he is no more!
Go sound it, Triton, o’er the humid waters!
Go weep for him again, ye misty daughters!
Re-echo it, ye cliffs, along our shore!
And I myself will take the sad refrain
Of the elegiac strain,
And tune my lyre to a symphonious stream
Floating along with many a moony gleam,
Soft as an angel’s dream,
Over the foamy summit of each wave,