Her golden tresses seem to sweep the ground:
Soft mossy turf, on which I wont to stray,
For me no longer bloom thy flow'rets gay.
As when the chilly nights of March arise
And whirl the howling dust in eddies swift,
The sunbeams wither in the dimmer skies,
O'er the young ears the sand and pebbles drift:
So the war rages, and the furious forces
The air with smoke bespread, the field with corses.

The vineyard bleeds, and trampled is the com,
Orchards but heat the kettles of the camp....

As when a lake which gushing rains invade
Breaks down its dams, and fields are overflowed.
So floods of fire across the region spread,
And standing corn by crackling flames is mowed:
Bellowing the cattle fly; the forests burn,
And their own ashes the old stems in-urn.

He too, who fain would live in purity,
Feels nature treacherous, hears examples urge,
As one who, falling overboard at sea,
Beats with his arms and feet the buoyant surge,
And climbs at length against some rocky brink,
Only beneath exhausted strength to sink.

My cheek bedewed with holy tears in vain,
To love and heaven I vowed a spotless truth:
Too soon the noble tear exhaled again,