Thee, fairest Naiad, oft at early dawn
I meditate, till Evening, matron staid,
Her tresses dripping with ambrosial dew
Advance slow-pacing from the gilded West;
Nor cease I to reflect, how blest are they,
To envy blest, that in thy peaceful haunts
Hold pleasing dalliance with the Muses' train;
Yet tho' in other clime I rest remote,
Ill-fated, that my wayward lot forbids
To wander thy green verge beside, shalt thou
Remain unsung; while now the hoary Cam
Hard by me rolls his slowly-winding wave.