Philomel And Progne.

[1]      From home and city spires, one day,      The swallow Progne flew away,      And sought the bosky dell      Where sang poor Philomel.[2]      'My sister,' Progne said, 'how do you do?      'Tis now a thousand years since you      Have been conceal'd from human view;      I'm sure I have not seen your face      Once since the times of Thrace.      Pray, will you never quit this dull retreat?'      'Where could I find,' said Philomel, 'so sweet?'      'What! sweet?' cried Progne - 'sweet to waste      Such tones on beasts devoid of taste,      Or on some rustic, at the most!      Should you by deserts be engross'd?      Come, be the city's pride and boast.      Besides, the woods remind of harms      That Tereus in them did your charms.'      'Alas!' replied the bird of song,      'The thought of that so cruel wrong      Makes me, from age to age,      Prefer this hermitage;      For nothing like the sight of men      Can call up what I suffer'd then.'