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!