[The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear]
“Aret ager, vitio moriens sitit aeris herba.”—
Virgil, Ecl. VII. 57.
The thirsty fields a robe of sadness wear,
And the grass withers in the sultry air;
On the fair hillocks, where the swains recline,
The yellow leaf drops from the parched vine:
Let Phyllis come, the groves are green again,
And the dark clouds pour down reviving rain;
Smiles every meadow, blooms each lovely flower,
And the pleased songsters hail the genial shower.
The dark-green poplar whispers o'er the rills,
And the vine blushes on the sunny hills;
The beauteous myrtle trembles o'er the wave,
The laurel shades the cool, sequestered cave:
But while my Phyllis loves the hazel grove
The lowly hazel I shall ever love.
The lofty ash is fairest in the woods,
The trembling aspen o'er the crystal floods,
In flowery gardens waves the whispering pine,
The fir looks fair where towering hills decline;
But when, my Lycidas, you once return,
When for your absence I shall cease to mourn,
The ash shall yield to you among the woods,
And aspen trembling o'er the crystal floods.
