Ye flow'ry plains, ye sloping woods,
Ye bow'rs, and gay alcoves,
Ye falling streams, ye silver floods,
Ye grottos, and ye groves!
Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Tho' I your charms survey,
While HE consumes in pain the night,
In languor all the day.
The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.
Restrain, ye flow'rs, your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads;
And, sadly drooping side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.
Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade
Your tow'ring summits rear,
Ah! why, in wonted charms array'd,
Appear your leaves so fair?
But lo! the flow'rs as gaily smile,
As wanton waves the tree;
And, though I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
Oh! should the Fates an arrow send,
And strike the deadly wound;
Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Who fence your beauties round?
But hark! perhaps the plumy throng
Have learnt my plaintive tale;
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating down the dale.
Ah no! they chaunt a sprightly strain,
To soothe an am'rous mate;
Regardless of my anxious pain,
Or his uncertain fate.
But see, these little murm'ring rills,
With fond repinings rove;
And trickle, wailing, down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
Forbid not, if, beside your stream,
You hear me too repine,
Or aid with sigh your mournful theme,
Or proudly call him, mine.
Ye envious winds, the cause display
In whispers, as ye blow;
Why did your treach'rous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?
Did he not plan the shady bow'r,
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flow'r,
To make your breezes sweet?
And must he leave the wood, the field,
This dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The Patron of the plain?
Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
Who round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.
Say, thou that tun'st his warbling lyre,
Say, ruthless Phœbus, why
Through the parch'd air, this latent fire,
These deadly vapours fly?
Avaunt—ye gods of Pagan days!
Chimeras of the brain!
Avaunt——ye false unmeaning lays;
Like those vain idols, vain!
Preserve him, mild omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God!
Who clears the paths of life and sense,
Or stops them with a Nod!
Who bids the sun, replete with death,
Roll baneful through the skies!
Or winds, with pestilential breath,
From putrid climes arise!
Blest pow'r! who calm'st the raging deep,
His valu'd health restore!
Nor let the sons of genius weep;
Nor let the good deplore.
But, if thy boundless wisdom knows
His longer date an ill;
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will,
For happy needs must be the change
To such a godlike mind;
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.
And though his earthly scite be grac'd
With pleasures all must love;
Yet he that form'd it best can taste
Seraphic joys above.
Ye bow'rs, and gay alcoves,
Ye falling streams, ye silver floods,
Ye grottos, and ye groves!
Alas! my heart feels no delight,
Tho' I your charms survey,
While HE consumes in pain the night,
In languor all the day.
The flowers disclose a thousand blooms,
A thousand scents diffuse;
Yet all in vain they shed perfumes,
In vain display their hues.
Restrain, ye flow'rs, your thoughtless pride,
Recline your gaudy heads;
And, sadly drooping side by side,
Embrace your humid beds.
Tall oaks, that o'er the woodland shade
Your tow'ring summits rear,
Ah! why, in wonted charms array'd,
Appear your leaves so fair?
But lo! the flow'rs as gaily smile,
As wanton waves the tree;
And, though I sadly plain the while,
Yet they regard not me.
Oh! should the Fates an arrow send,
And strike the deadly wound;
Who, who shall then your sweets defend,
Who fence your beauties round?
But hark! perhaps the plumy throng
Have learnt my plaintive tale;
And some sad dirge, or mournful song,
Comes floating down the dale.
Ah no! they chaunt a sprightly strain,
To soothe an am'rous mate;
Regardless of my anxious pain,
Or his uncertain fate.
But see, these little murm'ring rills,
With fond repinings rove;
And trickle, wailing, down the hills,
Or weep along the grove.
Forbid not, if, beside your stream,
You hear me too repine,
Or aid with sigh your mournful theme,
Or proudly call him, mine.
Ye envious winds, the cause display
In whispers, as ye blow;
Why did your treach'rous gales convey
The poison'd shafts of woe?
Did he not plan the shady bow'r,
Where you so blithely meet?
The scented shrub, and fragrant flow'r,
To make your breezes sweet?
And must he leave the wood, the field,
This dear Arcadian reign?
Can neither verse nor virtue shield
The Patron of the plain?
Must he his tuneful breath resign,
Whom all the Muses love?
Who round his brow their laurels twine,
And all his songs approve.
Say, thou that tun'st his warbling lyre,
Say, ruthless Phœbus, why
Through the parch'd air, this latent fire,
These deadly vapours fly?
Avaunt—ye gods of Pagan days!
Chimeras of the brain!
Avaunt——ye false unmeaning lays;
Like those vain idols, vain!
Preserve him, mild omnipotence!
Our Father, King, and God!
Who clears the paths of life and sense,
Or stops them with a Nod!
Who bids the sun, replete with death,
Roll baneful through the skies!
Or winds, with pestilential breath,
From putrid climes arise!
Blest pow'r! who calm'st the raging deep,
His valu'd health restore!
Nor let the sons of genius weep;
Nor let the good deplore.
But, if thy boundless wisdom knows
His longer date an ill;
Let not my soul a wish disclose
To contradict thy will,
For happy needs must be the change
To such a godlike mind;
To go where kindred spirits range,
Nor leave a wish behind.
And though his earthly scite be grac'd
With pleasures all must love;
Yet he that form'd it best can taste
Seraphic joys above.