Go, idle boy, I quit thy power,
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs--no joys for me,
So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!

But sure methinks the alter'd day
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilly every zephyr blows,
And every stream untuneful flows,
No rapture swells the linnet's voice,
No more the vocal groves rejoice;
And e'en thy song, sweet bird of eve
With whom I lov'd so oft to grieve,
Now, scarce regarded, meets my ear
Unanswer'd by a sigh or tear;
No more with devious steps I choose
To brush the mountain's morning dews;
To drink the spirit of the breeze,
Or wander midst o'er--arching trees;
Or woo with undisturb'd delight
The pale--cheek'd Virgin of the night,
That, peering through the leafy bower,
Throws on the ground a silver shower.
Alas! is all this boasted ease
To lose each warm desire to please?
No sweet solicitude to know
For other's bliss, for other's woe,
A frozen apathy to find--
A sad vacuity of mind?

O! hasten back, thou heavenly boy,
And with thine anguish bring thy joy;
Return with all thy torments here,
And let me hope, and doubt, and fear;
O! rend my heart with every pain,
But, let me, let me love again!