—  soul is out of tune,
No harmony reigns here, 'tis discord all:
Be dumb, sweet Choristers, I heed you not;
Then why thus swell your liquid throats, to cheer
A wretch undone, for ever lost to joy,
And mark'd for ruin? Seek yon leafy grove,
Indulgent bliss there waits you; shun this spot
Drear, joyless, vacant, as my wasted soul,
Disrob'd of all her bliss: here heave, my heart,
Here sigh thy woes away; unheard the groan,
Unseen the falling tear; in this lone wild
No busy fool invades thy hoarded griefs,
And smiles in ignorance at what he feels not.
Yet, yet indulge not, list'ning winds may catch
Coherent sighs, and waft them far away,
Where levity holds high the senseless roar
Of laughter, and pale woe, abash'd, retires.
Or, shou'd my woes be to the winds diffus'd,
No longer mine, once past the quiv'ring lip;
Like flying atoms in the sightless air,
Some might descend on the gay, grinning herd;
But few, how few, wou'd reach the feeling mind!