28 THE FABLES OF FLORA. 



Stay, bloody soldier, stay thy hand. 

 Nor take the shepherd's gentle breath : 



Thy rage let innocence withstand; 

 Let music soothe the thirst of death. 



He frowned — He bade the arrow fly— 

 The arrow smote the tuneful swain; 



No more its tone his lip shall try, 

 Nor wake its vocal soul again, 



Cephisus, from his sedgy urn, 

 With woe beheld the sanguine deed: 



He mourned, and, as they heard him mourn. 

 Assenting sighed each trembling Reed. 



" Fair offspring of my waves, he cried ; 



" That bind my brows, my banks adorn, 

 " Pride of the plains, the rivers' pride, 



** For music, peace, and beauty born! 



