The solemn-breathing air is ended—
 Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
From the poplar-branch suspended
 Glitter to the eye of Day!
On thy wires hov'ring, dying,
 Softly sighs the summer wind:
I will slumber, careless lying,
 By yon waterfall reclin'd.
In the forest hollow-roaring
 Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound—
Clouds rise thick with heavy low'ring!
 See! th' horizon blackens round!
Parent of the soothing measure,
 Let me seize thy wetted string!
Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,
 Headlong, ever on the wing.