GLEE. (Come round me and weep, to your…)

Come round me and weep, to your hearts take despair: 'Tis a cause that all nature must mourn, Poor Hylas of love who from all had a share, From our wishes for ever is torn. That Hylas to whom we look'd up for a smile, As we blessings from heaven would obtain, Whose form was so faultless, whose tongue knew no guile, Is gone, and our wishes are vain.