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In vain to me
the smiling mornings shine,
And redd'ning Phoebus
lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their
amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their
green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes
repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my
breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles
the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings
to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted
tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds
complain:
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
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