XXV.

A voice of sorrow! not from thence it rose; ’Twas not the childless mother. Syrian maids, Where with red wave the mountain streamlet flows, Keep tearful vigil in their native shades. With dirge and plaint the cedar-groves resound, Each rock’s deep echo for Adonis mourns: Weep for the dead! Away! the lost is found-- To life and love the buried god returns! Then wakes the timbrel--then the forests ring, And shouts of frenzied joy are on each breeze’s wing!