WHence come these dismal sounds that fill our ears!
Why do the groves such lamentations send!
Why sit the virgins on the hill of tears,
While heavy sighs their tender bosoms rend!
They weep for ALBIN with the flowing hair,
Who perish'd by the cruelty of MEY;
A blameless hero, blooming, young, and fair;
Because he scorn'd her passion to obey.
See on you western hill the heap of stones,
Which mourning friends have raised o'er his bones!