Even so bewails, the poplar groves among
Even so bewails, the poplar groves among,
Sad Philomela her evanished Young;
Whom the harsh Rustic from the nest hath torn,
An unfledged brood; but on the bough forlorn
She sits, in mournful darkness all night long;
Renews, and still renews, her doleful song,
And fills the leafy grove, complaining of her wrong.
Sad Philomela her evanished Young;
Whom the harsh Rustic from the nest hath torn,
An unfledged brood; but on the bough forlorn
She sits, in mournful darkness all night long;
Renews, and still renews, her doleful song,
And fills the leafy grove, complaining of her wrong.
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