Hail, Colinet, thou blytheft of the train,
That woo'd the muse by Heliconian spring;
With thee may laurel girlond still remain,
And on thy grave may rosy-bosom'd spring
Her incense scatter from dew-dropping wing:
In thy Nepenthe let me steep my quill,
And with thy finger touch the trembling string,
When thrown beside the wildly-murmuring rill,
I view the evening shade descend from Arlo hill.