AH Mela! pleasant art thou to behold
Drop, as thou runnest on, thy curls of gold
In looser ringlets, and then bending down
Those branches whence Alcides wreath’d his crown,
And mingling them with darker from the dead
O’er whom Apollo droopt his guilty head.
There in one shadow on thy breast unite
Cypress and poplar, equal in thy sight.
But where is our Valerius? where is he
Who sang so many loves, and each with glee?
The Muse of elegy stood far away
And pined and pouted at his Sapphic lay.
Venus could never bring her faithful doves
Within the precincts of the Lesbian groves.
He whom thou most delightedst in prefer’d
The pert and piping to the cooing bird,
And the few tears, the very few, he shed,
Were on the breast which held that pert one dead.
Barbaric trumpets, Mela, now resound
On every hill and vale thou seest around.
But fear not, Mela! thou shalt yet rejoice,
And mid thy shepherds raise thy silvery voice.
The robbers shall be driven far and wide...
Shrink not if gore pollute thy placid tide,
If some few days it swell with bloated men,
It shall run free, soon, soon, and pure agen.