O, glorious sun! thou shinest there The beacon of this hemisphere, Calling to life the seeds of earth And myriads to happy birth. They dance on silv'ry wing with glee, Made merry through the warmth of thee, Whilst I alone, 'neath thine All-warming ray, Feel not thine influence--so dark my day. O, hide thee! hide thee in a storm, Or take the darkest, blackest form; Perchance my glominess were shock'd, And from mine heart, my grief unlocked, Might fly to thee, and happ'ly say, 'Sun, I am brighter than thy day;' But shine not now so brightly o'er my woes Thou mock'st the heart that darkness doth compose. Ye trees so green, so freshly green! What vigour in your stems is seen; Why, robed in mantles of delight. Do ye thus mock my aching sight? Ye look so lovely in your smile; Have ye no pity in your guile? Why look so rich, enchanting to the eye, Of him who, like a severed leaf, must die? Your leaves must wither, fall away; Another spring you'll look as gay; Your roots receive the vernal shower, Your buds put forth their leafy power; And grateful shades to love ye give, And bid the songsters happy live; But, oh! no love for me is found to dwell Within your shade, your love-enchanting spell. Ye swallows passing on the wing, Catching at every tiny thing; Gliding so swiftly o'er the plain, And then returning back again; Ye summer friends with happy hearts, What pleasure life to you imparts! Ye know no winter! grief doth bring no care, To such as you, ye children of the air! Oh! do not mock me! I would fly, Ay, lightly too, as happily, Could I but feel I had a wing Of love, could lighten such a thing As I am--heavy-hearted man-- In this, my short and dreary span. Go, fly away! depart to distant land; Mock not my spirit with your flirtings bland. Ye hills around me, why so gay? Vanish! oh, vanish ye away! Why stand ye there in fertile pride, My heart and senses to deride? Ye looked so lovely; but of late, I could have contemplating sat Where now I sit, and long had wished to stay But flee ye! flee ye from my sight away! How oft in shadowy forms ye rose! Not then exulting o'er my woes; But courted as Parnassus height. From wing of love to give me flight. My native hills, I weep, I groan, I feel, ay, wretchedly alone! Will ye be green to mock my broken heart? O! hills of Gypeswich, depart! depart! Ye walls monastic, here and there, With turrets rising in the air; Sure not in England can be found Town with more consecrated ground. The streets are lost, they seem so small, Before the space ye claim for wall! Are monks and friars in their cells so free, They do but laugh at such a wretch as me?