Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain!
Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!
That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain,
Or unlamented found thy native tomb.
The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade,
When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing,
With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade,
And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.
I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour,
I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh,
When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r,
Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—
When, in his little temple, colder grown,
He saw its sides of green to yellow grow,
And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown,
Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;
And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come,
(More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night),
That not one note should charm the leafless gloom,
But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight.