Is it friendship, that thus, on my heart, Impresses both sorrow and joy? How I sigh, with regret, to depart From the scenes that I ne'er can enjoy! For these hills are enliven'd no more With the sound from lost Corydon's tongue, And the vallies were never so poor Of flow'rets, that bloom'd when he sung!
How languid the woodbines appear, That laugh'd with the breeze as it stray'd And the lily is pearl'd with a tear, As it droops in his favourite shade. Sigh, sigh, ye soft gales, in despair; Ye streams, in sad murmurs complain; For Genius can never repair The loss of your favourite swain!
O'er the grave of Simplicity's child The kisses of Nature shall stray, To nourish the flow'r that's wild, To add the fresh blossoms of May. And Pity shall oftentimes rove, Unattended by Envy or Care, To loiter in Corydon's grove, And crown what he lov'd with a tear!
