And they chanted the rapturous lay:
By yon river that bends o'er the plain,
With alders and willows o'erhung,
Each warbler perceiv'd the glad strain,
And join'd in the numerous song.

Here the nightingale perch'd on the throne,
The poet and prince of the grove,
Inviting the lingering morn,
Taught the bard the sweet descant of love:
And there, from the brake by the rill,
When night's sober steps have retir'd,
Ten thousand gay choristers thrill
Sweet confusion with rapture inspir'd.

Then the maiden, conducted by May,
Persuasive adviser of love,
With smiles that would rival the ray,
Nimbly trips to the bow'r in the grove;
Where sweetly I warble the song
Which beauty's soft glances inspire;
And, while melody flows from my tongue,
My soul is enrapt with desire.

But how sadly revers'd is the strain!
How doleful! since thou art away;
Every copse, every hillock and plain,
Has been mourning for many a day:
My bow'r, on the verge of the glade,
Where I sported in rapturous ease,