Hebe

Look to my lambkins—once again Daphnis shall try the Sylvan strain— And fetch me, boy, the fav'rite pipe I hung Love-lorn on yonder elm; it oft has rung In happier days With Hebe's praise, Till vallies, and hills, and the woods all around To yon river in concert re-echo'd the sound, Which love-freighted bore the name Far adown his winding stream, Repeating it with fond delay, While from bank to bank the joy Spread till—Where's my pipe, my boy— Till like my hopes, alas! it dy'd away. Why do I sigh? Dost know, my pipe?—Nowspeak—I've caught the sound That lifts me high, That bids me run my wonted careless round Bids me again to kinder fair one's rove, And Hebe leave who slights my proffer'd love