Song

WHEN first, Philander, first I came
Where Avon rolls his winding stream,
The nymphs—how brisk! the swains—how gay!
To see Asteria, queen of May!—
The parsons round her praises sung!
The steeples with her praises rung!—
I thought—no sight that e'er was seen
Could match the fight of Barel's Green.

But now, since old Eugenio dy'd—
The chief of poets, and the pride—
Now, meaner bards in vain aspire
To raise their voice, to tune their lyre;
Their lovely season now is o'er;
Thy notes, Florelio, please no more—
No more Asteria's smiles are seen—
Adieu—the sweets of Barel's Green!—