O camp of flowers, with poplars girdled round, 
Gray guardians of life's soft and purple bud! 
O silver spring, beside whose brimming flood 
My pensive childhood its Elysium found! 
O happy hours by love and fancy crowned, 
Whose horn of plenty flatteringly subdued 
My heart into a trance, whence, with a rude 
And horrid blast, fate came my soul to hound! 
Who was the goddess that empowered you all 
Thus to bewitch me? Out of wasting snow 
And lily-leaves her head-dress should be made! 
Weep, my poor lute! nor on Astraea call, 
She will not smile, nor I, who mourn below, 
Till I, a shade in heaven, clasp her, a shade.