But sure methinks the alter'd day
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilly every zephyr blows,
And every stream untuneful flows.
No rapture swells the linnet's voice,
No more the vocal groves rejoice;
And e'en thy song, sweet bird of eve
With whom I lov'd so oft to grieve,
Now, scarce regarded, meets my ear
Unanswer'd by a sigh or tear;
No more with devious steps I choose
To brush the mountain's morning dews;
"To drink the spirit of the breeze,"
Or wander midst o'er-arching trees;
Or woo with undisturb'd delight
The palecheek'd Virgin of the night,
That, peering through the leafy bower,
Throws on the ground a silver shower.
Alas! is all this boasted ease
To lose each warm desire to please?
No sweet solicitude to know
For other's bliss, for other's woe,
A frozen apathy to find —
A sad vacuity of mind?