Song to a Welsh Air (I mourn not the forest)

I Mourn not the forest whose verdure is dying;
I mourn not the Summer whose beauty is o'er:
I weep for the hopes that for ever are flying;
I sigh for the worth that I slighted before;

And sigh to bethink me how vain is my sighing,
For love, once extinguished, is kindled no more.
The Spring may return with his garland of flowers,
And wake to new rapture the bird on the tree;

The Summer smile soft through his crystalline bowers
The blessings of Autumn wave brown o'er the lea;
The rock may be shaken, the dead may awaken,
But the friend of my bosom returns not to me.