1 In vain to me the smiling Mornings shine,
2 And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire;
3 The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
4 Or cheerful fields resume their green attire;
5 These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
6 A different object do these eyes require;
7 My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
8 And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
9 Yet Morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
10 And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
11 The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
12 To warm their little loves the birds complain;
13 I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
14 And weep the more because I weep in vain.