I.

Why, oh, ye willows, and ye pastures bare, Why will ye thus your bloom so late delay, Wrap in chill weeds the sere and sullen day, And cheerless greet me wandering in despair? Tell me, ah, tell me!—ye of old could tell,— Whither my vanished Ion now doth fare. Say, have ye seen him lately pass this way, Ye who his wonted haunts did know full well? Heard ye his voice forth from the thicket swell, Where midst the drooping ferns he loved to stray? Caught ye no glimpses of my truant there? Tell me, oh, tell me, whither he hath flown— Beloved Ion flown, and left ye sad and lone, Whilst I through wood and field his loss bemoan.