A torpid season once in every year
Falls on my nature, when in vain I wring
A sullen discord from this golden string,
Or strive with song to fill my vacant ear.
Yon linnet moulting now his feathery gear
In drooping silence, without heart to sing
The lays he twittered to the early Spring,
Emblems my state, and seems to feel my cheer.
God, wouldst thou make me grateful for my lot,
By thus confounding me with common men,
Lest, in my pride, thy bounties be forgot?
Give me, O Lord, my power to sing again,
Leaning my breast against a thorny spot,
So lost in music that I smile at pain!