The pensive hour that Sorrow loves.
Tho' the dim Landscape mock my Eye,
Mine Eye its fading charm pursues:
Ah! tell me, busy Fancy, why
Thro' the lone Eve thou still would'st muse?
More rich perfume does Flora yield?
Blows the light breeze a softer Gale?
Do fresher dews revive the Field?
Does sweeter music fill the Vale?
No, idle Wand'rer, no!—in vain