Romanzo to Sylvia

I've taught thee Love's sweet lesson o'er,
A task that is not learn'd with tears :
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before
In her wild, solitary years ?
Then what does he deserve, the Youth,
Who made her con so dear a truth !

Till now in silent vales to roam,
Singing vain songs to heedless flowers,
Or watch the dashing billows foam,
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers,
To weave light crowns of various hue, —
Were all the joys thy bosom knew.

The wild bird, though most musical,
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ;
The streamlet and the waterfall
Could only weep when thou didst sigh !
Thou couldst not change one dulcet word
Either with billow, or with bird.

For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
Winds have a soft discoursing way ;
Heav'n's starry talk is all its own, —
It dies in thunder far away.
E'en when thou wouldst the Moon beguile
To speak, — she only deigns to smile !

Now, birds and winds, be churlish still,
Ye waters keep your sullen roar,
Stars be as distant as ye will, —
Sylvia need court ye now no more :
In Love there is society
She never yet could find with ye !