No more, ye warbling birds! rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she-repeats my pain.
Where'er my lovesick limbs I lay
To shun the rushing wind,
Its busy murmurs seem to say,
'She never will be kind!'
The Naiads, o'er their frozen urns,
In icy chains repine;
And each in sullen silence mourns
Her freedom lost, like mine!
Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?
More verses by William Shenstone
- The Poet And The Dun
- To A Lady Of Quality, Fitting Up Her Library
- The Rose-Bud
- Epilogue - To The Tragedy Of Cleone
- The School-Mistress. In Imitation Of Spenser (Excerpt)