Now, as I gaze upon the sky, Or on the verdant fields, Each thing with sorrow me inspires, And each a pleasure yields.
The mountain, forest, and the shore Once more my heart rejoice; The fountain speaks to me once more, The sea hath found a voice.
Who, after all this apathy, Restores to me my tears? Each moment, as I look around, How changed the world appears!
Hath hope, perchance, O my poor heart, Beguiled thee of thy pain? Ah, no, the gracious smile of hope I ne’er shall see again.
Nature bestowed these impulses, And these illusions blest; Their inborn influence, in me, By suffering was suppressed;
But not annulled, not overcome By cruel blows of Fate; Nor by the inauspicious frown Of Truth, importunate!
I know she has no sympathy For fond imaginings; I know that Nature, too, is deaf, Nor heeds our sufferings;
That for our good she nothing cares, Our being, only heeds; And with the sight of our distress Her wild caprices feeds.
I know the poor man pleads in vain, For others’ sympathy; That scornfully, or heedlessly, All from his presence flee;
That both for genius and for worth, This age has no respect; That all who cherish lofty aims Are left to cold neglect.