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I've lov'd to mark with wond'ring eyes The forked lightning's vivid flash;To watch the howling tempest rise, And hear the whelming billows dash.
The awful grandeur of the storm, The morning's blush, the ev'ning's gloom,Shall wake no more this languid form, That soon shall press an early tomb.
Adieu! ye haunts of peace and joy, Where once so carelessly I stray'd,My tranquil moments to employ, In yonder grove's sequester'd shade.
But sullen now, and cheerless all, Is ev'ry object that I see;Nor can their loveliest charms recall The parted joys of health to me.
For in the cold and silent tomb Soon, soon shall Delia's form be laid;Unheedful there of vernal bloom, Of summer sun, and winter shade;
And there, by all the world forgot, In peace my mould'ring form shall rest;Though scarce a tear bedew the spot Where lies the green turf on my breast.
