The Braes of Balendine

Beneath a green grove, a lovely young swain One ev'ning reclin'd, to discover his pain; So sad, yet so sweetly he warbled his woe, The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountains to flow: Rude winds with compassion could hear him complain, But Cloe less gentle, was deaf to his strain.

How happy, he cry'd, my moments once flew! When Cloe's bright charms first flush'd in my view; Those eyes then with pleasure the dawn could survey; Nor smil'd the fair morning more chearful than they: Now scenes of distress alone meet my sight, I'm tortur'd in pleasure, and languish in light.

Then changes in vain for relief I pursue, All else but conspire my grief to renew: From sunshine to zephyrs, and shades we repair, To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air: But love's ardent fever burns always the same, No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.

But see the pale moon all clouded retire, The breezes grow dull, not Strephon's desire! I fly from the danger of tempest and wind, Yet nourish the madness that preys on the mind; Ah wretch! how can life be worthy thy care? To lengthen its moments, but lengthens despair!