Whilst dreary Winter clothes the Landscape round,
And sober Eve her dusky mantle veers;
Here let me studious on this rising mound
Recline, and give to yonder stream my tears.
Yon pleasing plain, yon sweetly swelling hill,
Which oft with rapture did my eyes invite;
Yon dale irriguous, and yon purling rill
Shall soon be vanish’d to my ravish’d sight.
Yon shady bow’rs wherein I oft was wont,
With sportive youths to spend some votive hours,