Classic Poem

When Collin's tuneful pipe with soft'ning strains,
Fill'd with melodious sounds the neighb'ring plains;
The nightingale responsive, in the grove
Sung her sweet lay, and tun'd my heart to love:
But absent now from all that's to me dear,
A charm in Music I no longer hear.

Where are the joys the early seasons bring?
For herds the grass, for bees the flowers spring;
The black-birds sing on ev'ry blooming thorn,
And fresh'ning daisies ev'ry vale adorn:
In vain the spring for me adorns the plains,
While in my heart so cold a winter reigns.

The herds in Summer seek the cooling streams,
Where shady trees exclude the sultry beams;
The shepherds to some op'ning glade repair,
Where gentle breezes temperate the air:
But no cool breeze can fan my flame away,
Nor cooler streams the latent fire allay.

Rich Autumn now adds profit to delight,
And rip'ning apples ev'ry hand invite;
Each swain divides his apple with his fair,
So I with Collin once was wont to share:
But now no fruits to please my taste have pow'r,
Not gather'd by his hand, all fruits are sour.

Winter a-while each growing herb restrains,
And locks all nature in his icy chains;
His reign but for a season doth endure,
Spring smiles, and nature feels the pow'rful cure:
But ah! my heart's in faster fetters bound,
Which still grow stronger as the years go round.