Tumult’ous passions did her bosom swell;
Nor could she long the fervid flame disguise;
An awful victim to despair she fell!
She’s gone, and Nature seems a blank to me;
No charm appears in all its large domain.
The songsters silent sit upon the tree,
Or pour their notes in melancholy strain.
The banks of Irvine yield me no delight,
Nor can bright Phœbus cheer me by his ray:
In restless tossing still I spend the night,