Or if thy wayward fancy loves
To meet her in the silent groves,
When her wrapt eye is bound for flight
Along the dreary vault of night;
And fixing, near some muffl'd star,
Waits for the Day's triumphal car;
Or sees the Moon, by clouds oppress'd,
Tear the wet mantle from her breast,
This I allow: yet even here,
E'en in the blissful lunar sphere,
Amid the clouds of varying forms,
In gilded pomp, or lowering storms,
She still calls back the former hour,
The future seems on thee to lower:
No tree can wave his leafy head,
Nor lilies slumbering on their bed,
Nor fragrant roses blooming gay,
Nor morning flow'ret droop away,
But all have secret power to tell
A tale of friends, ah! lov'd too well.
Shun, shun the "matron sage and holy,"
Shun, shun such tearful melancholy!
Heed not the whisper of her sigh,
Nor meet the pathos of her eye,
Else shall the gayest scenes appear
Veil'd in a thin translucent tear.