HIGH in the glowing heavens, with cloudless beam,
The sun had reached the zenith of his reign,
And for the living fount, the gelid stream,
Each flock forsook the herbage of the plain:
Midst the dark foliage of the forest-shade,
The birds had sheltered from the scorching ray;
Hushed were their melodies—and grove and glade
Resounded but the shrill cicada's lay:
When, through the grassy vale, a love-lorn swain,
To seek the maid who but despised his pain,
Breathing vain sighs of fruitless passion roved:
"Why pine for her," the slighted wanderer cried,
"By whom thou art not loved?"–and thus replied
An echo's murmuring voice—"Thou art not loved!"