Swell proud, my billows, faint not to declare Your joys as ample as their causes are: For murmurs hoarse sound like Arion's harp, Now delicately flat, now sweetly sharp; And you, my nymphs, rise from your moist repair; Strow all your springs and grots with lilies fair: Some swiftest-footed, get them hence, and pray Our floods and lakes come keep this holiday; Whate'er beneath Albania's hills do run, Which see the rising or the setting sun, Which drink stern Grampius' mists, or Ochil's snows: Stone-rolling Tay, Tyne tortoise-like that flows, The pearly Don, the Dees, the fertile Spey, Wild Neverne, which doth see our longest day; Ness smoking sulphur, Leave with mountains crown'd, Strange Lomond for his floating isles renown'd: The Irish Rian, Ken, the silver Ayr, The snaky Dun, the Ore with rushy hair, The crystal-streaming Nid, loud-bellowing Clyde, Tweed which no more our kingdoms shall divide; Rank-swelling Annan, Lid with curled streams, The Esks, the Solway, where they lose their names, To every one proclaim our joys and feasts, Our triumphs; bid all come and be our guests: And as they meet in Neptune's azure hall, Bid them bid sea-gods keep this festival; This day shall by our currents be renown'd, Our hills about shall still this day resound; Nay, that our love more to this day appear, Let us with it henceforth begin our year. To virgins, flowers; to sunburnt earth, the rain; To mariners, fair winds amidst the main; Cool shades to pilgrims, which hot glances burn, Are not so pleasing as thy blest return. That day, dear prince, which robb'd us of thy sight, (Day, no, but darkness and a dusky night,) Did fill our breasts with sighs, our eyes with tears, Turn'd minutes to sad months, sad months to years, Trees left to flourish, meadows to bear flowers, Brooks hid their heads within their sedgy bowers, Fair Ceres cursed our fields with barren frost, As if again she had her daughter lost: The muses left our groves, and for sweet songs Sat sadly silent, or did weep their wrongs. You know it, meads; your murmuring woods it know, Hill, dales, and caves, copartners of their woe; And you it know, my streams, which from their een Oft on your glass received their pearly brine; O Naiads dear, (said they,) Napeas fair, O nymphs of trees, nymphs which on hills repair! Gone are those maiden glories, gone that state, Which made all eyes admire our bliss of late. As looks the heaven when never star appears, But slow and weary shroud them in their spheres, While Titon's wife embosom'd by him lies, And world doth languish in a dreary guise: As looks a garden of its beauty spoil'd, As woods in winter by rough Boreas foil'd, As portraits razed of colours used to be: So look'd these abject bounds deprived of thee.