To Corydon.

You tell me all nature looks gay,
You point where the primroses bloom;
But what are the beauties of May
To a mind that's envelop'd in gloom!
I saw where my Corydon lay,
I wept as I stood by his side:
Ah! what are the beauties of May!
Then sadly complaining, I cry'd:

Those beauties which nature bestows,
All lavishly painting the ground,
With jonquil and cinnamon-rose,
She scatters the asphodel round:
On the tulip what colouring glows,
What tincts on the iris I view;
The vi'let exults as it blows,
In regal apparel of blue.

Ah! once I could mark as they sprung
The flowers that enamell'd the glade,
Could dwell on the dew-drops that hung
Depending from boughs in the shade:
Could join the sweet birds as they sung,
Instructed by nature and love;
The music that flow'd from my tongue,
Kind echo prolong'd thro' the grove.

The stream that meander'd along
Slim rushes and pebbles between,
Oft paused to attend to my song,
Then murmur'd afresh to the green;
As warbling, the willows among,
The moon-beams play'd full on the tide,
Came fairies, — a glistering throng,
And Mab, with her spark by her side.

I'll ramble again o'er the plain,
And mark how the flow'rets arise;
When health paints the cheek of my swain
And gladness relumines his eyes:
Till then I'll in silence remain,
Unstrung, and unnoticed my lyre;
When the heart is averse to the strain,
No muse will the ditty inspire.