Tir'd with the busy crouds, that all the day
Impatient throng where Folly's altars flame,
My languid powers dissolve with quick decay,
Till genial Sleep repair the sinking frame.
Blow, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
Yes, yes, I grant the sons of earth
Are doom'd to trouble from their birth.
We all of sorrow have our share;
But say, is yours without compare?
'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;
I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;
For morn is approaching, your charms to restore,
'O ye wild groves, oh, where is now your bloom!'
(The muse interprets thus his tender thought)
Your flowers, your verdure, and your balmy gloom,