To glad some happier shore.
The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright
The sportsman’s frantic deed,
While hounds, and horns, and yells unite
To drown the Muse’s reed.
Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;
Ye skies! no longer blue;
Too much we feel from Fortune’s frown,
To bear these frowns from you.
Where is the mead’s unsullied green?