Song. Winter, 1746

No more, ye warbling Birds! rejoice:
Of all that cheer'd the plain,
Echo alone preserves her voice,
And she—repeats my pain.

Where'er my love-sick limbs I lay,
To shun the rushing wind,
Its busy murmur seems to say,
" She never will be kind!"

The Naiads o'er their frozen urns
In icy chains repine,
And each in sullen silence mourns
Her freedom lost, like mine!

Soon will the sun's returning rays
The cheerless frost control;
When will relenting Delia chase
The winter of my soul?