Ah! dearest Muse, whose carol gay Hath brighten'd ev'n my summer's way; No more we roam through Nuneham's Wood, Nor sing by Isis' classic Flood; Those scenes where pass'd our happier hours, Those lovely scenes no more are ours.
December Storms must roll away, And summer Suns illume the day, Ere again, delightful power, By Whitehead's Oak, or Mason's Bow'r, We bid the Song in rapture rise To Harcourt's flowery Paradise.
Yes, sweetest Maid, again thy shell Shall sound along each vocal dell; Again from yonder elmy brow Shall thy sprightly measures flow; And, reclin'd by Isis' Stream, Thy Poet wait the inspiring dream.
Now far we go — ye wake the wire To strains which Gratitude inspire, For social hours by Fancy cheer'd, For joys by Friendship's smile endear'd. Ere fade the disappearing view, Ah turn, and breathe a warm adieu.
