| |
| POOR River, now thou’rt almost dry, | |
| What nymph, or swain, will near thee lie? | |
| Since brought, alas! to sad decay, | |
| What flocks, or herds, will near thee stay? | |
| The swans, that sought thee in thy pride, | 5 |
| Now on new streams forgetful ride: | |
| And fish, that in thy bosom lay, | |
| Chuse in more prosp’rous floods to play. | |
| All leave thee, now thy ebb appears, | |
| To waste thy sad remains in tears; | 10 |
| Now will thy mournful murmurs heed. | |
| Fly, wretched stream, with all thy speed, | |
| Amongst those solid rocks thy griefs bestow; | |
| For friends, like those alas! thou ne’er did’st know. | |
| |
| And thou, poor sun! that sat’st on high; | 15 |
| But late, the splendour of the sky; | |
| What flow’r tho’ by thy influence born, | |
| Now clouds prevail, will tow’rds thee turn? | |
| Now darkness sits upon thy brow, | |
| What Persian votary will bow? | 20 |
| What river will her smiles reflect, | |
| Now that no beams thou can’st direct? | |
| By wat’ry vapours overcast, | |
| Who thinks upon thy glories past? | |
| If present light, nor heat we get, | 25 |
| Unheeded thou may’st rise, and set. | |
| Not all the past can one adorer keep, | |
| Fall, wretched sun, to the more faithful deep. | |
| |
| Nor do thou, lofty structure! boast, | |
| Since undermined by time and frost: | 30 |
| Since thou canst no reception give, | |
| In untrod meadows thou may’st live. | |
| None from his ready road will turn, | |
| With thee thy wretched change to mourn. | |
| Not the soft nights, or cheerful days | 35 |
| Thou hast bestowed, can give thee praise. | |
| No lusty tree that nears thee grows, | |
| (Tho’ it beneath thy shelter rose) | |
| Will to thy age a staff become. | |
| Fall, wretched building! to the tomb. | 40 |
| Thou, and thy painted roofs, in ruin mixt, | |
| Fall to the earth, for that alone is fixt. | |
| |
| The same, poor man, the same must be | |
| Thy fate, nor fortune frowns on thee. | |
| Her favour ev’ry one pursues, | 45 |
| And losing her, thou all must lose. | |
| No love, sown in thy prosp’rous days, | |
| Can fruit in this cold season raise: | |
| No benefit, by thee conferred, | |
| Can in this time of storms be heard. | 50 |
| All from thy troubled waters run; | |
| Thy stooping fabric all men shun. | |
| All do thy clouded looks decline, | |
| As if thou ne’er did’st on them shine. | |
| O wretched man! to other worlds repair; | 55 |
| For Faith and Gratitude are only there. | |
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