Strephon and Lydia

All lovely on the sultry beach

Expiring Strephon lay;

No hand the cordial draught to reach,

Nor cheer the gloomy way.

Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh,

To catch thy fleeting breath;

No bride, to fix thy swimming eye,

Or smooth the face of Death.

Far distant from the mournful scene

Thy parents sit at ease;

Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,

And all the spring, to please.

Ill-fated youth! by fault of friend,

Not force of foe, depress'd;

Thou fall'st, alas! thyself, thy kind,

Thy country unredress'd!