How often my lyre, on this morning of love
To thy name has rung loudly, but still rung in vain,
Nor my strains nor my truth thy cold bosom can move
To hear thy sad victim, and pity his pain.
Not the woods of proud Latium, more frequent the name
Of fair Amaryllis were taught to resound,
The tall groves of Oxford have echoes thy fame
“Eborina” the hills of Llangollen rebound.
Oh think ere the roses of youth shall be past
In the gay spring of life that still brilliantly bloom,
In its winter how dreary and chill is the blast
If Love warm not the air and enliven the gloom.