icilian shepherds lost a mate,
Some good survivor with his flute would go,
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate deg.; deg.84
And cross the unpermitted ferry's flow, deg. deg.85
And relax Pluto's brow,
And make leap up with joy the beauteous head
Of Proserpine, deg. among whose crowned hair deg.88
Are flowers first open'd on Sicilian air,
And flute his friend, like Orpheus, from the dead. deg. deg.90

O easy access to the hearer's grace
When Dorian shepherds sang to Proserpine!
For she herself had trod Sicilian fields,
She knew the Dorian water's gush divine, deg. deg.94
She knew each lily white which Enna yields, 95
Each rose with blushing face deg.; deg.96
She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian strain. deg. deg.97
But ah, of our poor Thames she never heard!
Her foot the Cumner cowslips never stirr'd;
And we should tease her with our plaint in vain! 100

Well! wind-dispersed and vain the words will be,
Yet, Thyrsis, let me give my grief its hour
In the old haunt, and find our tree-topp'd hill!
Who, if not I, for questing here hath power?
I know the wood which hides the daffodil, 105
I know the Fyfield tree, deg. deg.106
I know what white, what purple fritillaries
The grassy harvest of the river-fields,
Above by Ensham, deg. down by Sandford, deg. yields, deg.109
And what sedged brooks are Thames's tributaries; 110

I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?--
But many a dingle on the loved hill-side,
With thorns once studded, old, white-blossom'd trees
Where thick the cowslips grew, and far descried
High tower'd the spikes of purple orchises, 115
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time;
Down each green bank hath gone the ploughboy's team,
And only in the hidden brookside gleam
Primroses, orphans of the flowery prime. 120

Where is the girl, who by the boatman's door,
Above the locks, above the boating throng,
Unmoor'd our skiff when through the Wytham flats, deg. deg.123
Red loosestrife and blond