How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noon-tide shadow, and thy evening breeze! 90
His image thy forsaken bowers restore;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.
From other ills, however Fortune frowned; 95
Some refuge in the Muse’s art I found:
Reluctant now I touch the trembling string,
Bereft of him who taught me how to sing;