Adieu, ye gay delights of youth,
Vain pride, lewd mirth, and painful love!
Henceforth be mine the sweets of truth
And innocence to prove.

On youth what anxibus pleasures wait,
And daily tempt his wand'ring eye,
At which he grasps; but, oft too late,
He sees fell ruin nigh!

The days are fled, the joys are past,
Dear joys, that I was wont to prize!
I bend before misfortune's blast,
And hope within me dies.

No more by contemplation led,
Can nature's fairest scenes delight!
No more is fancy's net--work spread
Before my aching sight!

Nor aught avail the varied hues
That from the lap of Summer flow,
To him who, in the future, views
Variety of woe!

But dear are Winter's raging winds,
His forests bare, and frowning sky;
Congenial to the wearied minds
Of creatures, such as I.

Yon tree, unshelter'd from the storm,
Hangs, tott'ring o'er the dimpl'd stream,
By wild winds torn: its shapeless form
Now tells me what I seem!