Meek evening, wafted on thy glowing breast,
Spring's richest perfumes scent the tranquil air:
Nor vain they strive to give his spirit rest,
Who knows no solace from supreme despair.
To me congenial swell these prospects rude,
When deepening shades embrown the dashing tide;
For here no dark unhallowed thoughts intrude,
Where love and nature still with peace reside.
Tho she has flown to death's unthinking sleep,
Whose smile was rapture to my aching heart,
Has left her lovelorn votary to weep,
And feel an anguish, which can ne'er depart;
Yet here, Vaucluse, thy bard delights to rove,
And tell his sorrows to the vocal grove.