FABLES OF FLORA. 51 
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 river’s pride, 
For music, peace, and beauty born! 
‘Ah! what, unheedful, have we done? 
What demons here in death delight? 
W hat fiends, that curse the social sun? 
What furies, of infernal night? 
‘ See, see my peaceful shepherds bleed! 
Each heart in harmony that vied, 
Smote by his own melodious Reed, 
Lies cold along my blushing side. 
‘ Back to your urn, my waters-, fly, 
Or find in earth some secret way; 
For horror dims yon conscious sky, 
And hell has issued into day.’ 
