The blackbird has fled to another retreat,
Where the hazel affords him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
To change both my heart and my fancy employs;
I reflect on the frailty of man and his joys;