I.

T HE fold is still, the shepherd finds repose,
The dews of night, fall, silent, on the shade,
Slumb'ring, the tardy streamlet, softly flows,
And cruel Daphne sleeps, unseeling maid!
But ah! what sleep can lull my waking woes,
Nor peace, nor holy rest, this tortur'd bosom knows.

II.

Fair S LEEP , if nought avails thy leaden wand,
To soothe my weary'd sense, my throbbing breast;
Beck, some kind Vision, with thy fairy hand,
Some shape fantastic, lovelier than the rest;
On Daphne'S brow to take her tranquil stand,
With pow'r, prevailing ardors, to command.

III.

Ah! gentle spirit, tell her how I weep,
How, thorns implant my pillow, Love's keen thorns,
How, madly wild, and trembling pale, he burns,
Now, haunted by despair, now, musing deep;
Who feels her chain, and calls the ling'ring Sun,
To see that face, once more, by which he was undone.