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XVII.

He hath donn'd a cloak of russet brown,
A bonnet o'er his dark locks is thrown;
The knight and serf their pathway hold
Where pearly Alcantara roll'd;
Where blithe perennial hues adorn
The fields whence Proserpine was borne;
Where limpid, rush-clad fountains run,
Hid from the glare of the fervent sun,
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Yet modest, as when chang'd of eld,
In tears, the rape the nymphs beheld;

They were fabled to have been nymphs who witnessed the carrying away of Proserpine. For the supposed historical origin of the fable, see Denon.


All pure and shrinkingly they hide
Mid the green surf their lucid tide.
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