Stanzas (Blithe as the birds that wing the air)

Blithe as the birds that wing the air,Erewhile my mountain lyre I strung;And deem'd the rudest scenes an Eden fair,Through which its wild notes rung;—The sterile vale, the green inconstant sea,And barren heath-clad hills were all to me.

But now no more they give delight,As in departed days, I ween;For gloomy sorrow's long and starless nightEnvelopes ev'ry scene:The zephyr's wing, that gently flutters by,Scatters in air the frequent sigh.

Then, faithless flatt'rer, Hope, adieu!Thy song no more can soothe my heart;Thy fairy pencil, dipp'd in rainbow hue,No longer can impartTo this deluded breast one moment's joy;There pangs of cureless woe thy loveliest scenes destroy.

Ah! wherefore should this feeble handEssay again to strike the lyre;No cherish'd friendship shall the lay demand,Responsive to the wire;No seraph-voice of love, or friendship dear,Shall steal, like strains from heav'n, upon mine ear.