In Pleyel’s Grand Concertante

Bleak gloomy winds will surely rise, When autumn hastes away; Ah! so shall swell my rising sighs, So wintry grow my day.

Lost to my view, when Cloe’s form No more adorns this shade; Then, O then, must Sorrow’s storm My drooping soul invade.

Fast falling tears bedew the ground When dark November lours, Nor yet less lavish will be found, These eyes’ descending showers.

Doom’d when I feel my sick’ning heart To wail its vanish’d joys; Now, e’en now, the dreaded smart My present bliss destroys.

Cease, Fancy, cease the golden prime Of Love’s delights to veil; Cease to present the cruel time When every joy must fail!

Live while we may,—’tis all we can, And shun the thought that mourns! Crown with roses life’s short span, But lean not on their thorns!