Near the cerulean margin of our streams
I stood, and on the tufted herbage spread
My purple vestments in those beams
Which from his noontide orb Hyperion shed,
When on a sudden from the waving reeds
I heard a plaintive and unwelcome sound
Of bitter lamentation; o’er the meads
Groans inarticulate were poured around:
Beneath the rocky cave, dear scene of past delight,
Some Naiad thus bewails Pan’s hasty flight.