Classic Poem

Far from these smiling skies (O heavy pain!)
Urg'd by hard fate, my flocks we're doom'd to go
To other climes, where gales less balmy blow,
Nor suns so genial chear the toiling swain.
I my soul's joy, and you your fruitful plain,
For ever leave, with forrowing steps and slow:
But thou, ill-suited to my gloomy woe,
In these my native bow'rs, lov'd pipe, remain.
Mov'd by thy sight, my cruel Fair may yield
Her frozen breast to pity, many a song
Rememb'ring sad, which pleas'd in former years.
Thus with his flocks from his paternal field
The hopeless Shepherd pensive mov'd along,
Their footsteps bathing with his copious tears.