The music of his harp was as the music of a dream,
Most mournfully delicious, like those tones that wound the heart,
Yet soothe it, when it cherishes the griefs that ne'er depart.
"O Neck! O water-spirit! demon, delicate, and fair!"
The young twain cried, who heard his lay, "why art thou harping there?
Thine airy form is drooping, Neck! thy cheek is pale with dree,
And torrents shouldst thou weep, poor fay, no Saviour lives for thee!"
All mournful look'd the elflet then, and sobbing, cast aside
His harp, and with a piteous wail, sunk fathoms in the tide.
Keen sorrow seiz'd those gentle youths, who'd given cureless pain—