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Revive, ye woods! your leafy honours spread,In green luxuriance o'er the wand'rer's head;Perch'd on the boughs, ye feather'd warblers sing,And greet, with glad accord, returning Spring:No more in icy chains, ye Naiads! mourn,But pour the sparkling stream from many an urn.
Would selfish grief the charms of Spring destroy?—Though I may mourn, yet millions may enjoy:Was wide creation only meant for me—No other heart to feel, nor eye to see?No! let me hope that many a mortal bless'd,Can boast the brighter sun-shine of the breast.For such, oh, Spring! return in all thy joy,No envious fate their fleeting bliss destroy!Nor will I waste in sorrowing strains my breathTo chill that sunbeam with the gloom of death;But all my anguish, to my breast confin'd,Shall prey unshar'd upon my sinking mind,And gently steal me to the silent grave,Where mem'ry dies, and grief forgets to rave.
