'Tis the mournful festival of Spring!
The blooming maids, with maddened cry
And streaming hair, dishevelled fly;
In wild lament their voices ring—
“Adonis! Adonis!”

The night descends; the torches gleam.
They search the wood, that, thrilled with fear,
Re-echoes to their wailing drear,
And laughs, and weeps with sob and scream—
“Adonis! Adonis!”

The youthful form so wondrous fair
Lies wan upon the ground and dead;
His blood has stained the flowers red
And sounds of mourning fill the air:
“Adonis! Adonis!”