With a sad pleasure the aërial maid
This image of her ancient realm survey'd;
How chang'd, how fallen from its primaeval pride!
Yet here each moon, the hour her lover dy'd,
Each moon his solemn obsequies she pays,
And leads the dance beneath pale Cynthia's rays;
Pleas'd in the shades to head her fairy train,
And grace the groves where Albion's kinsmen reign.