While on the east soft steals the evening gray,
He rises, and resumes the accustom’d crook,
Quitting the beechen grove, the field, the brook,
And gently homeward drives the flock he fed;
Then far from human tread,
In lonely hut or cave,
O’er which the green boughs wave,
In sleep without a thought he lays his head:
Ah! cruel Love! at this dark, silent hour,
Thou wak’st to trace, and with redoubled power,