And vainly, devious Avon! vainly sigh
Thy waters, winding thro' the vales below;--

In vain, upon thy glassy bosom borne,
Th' expected vessel proudly glides along,
While, 'mid thy echoes, at the break of morn
Is heard the homeward ship-boy's happy song;--

For, ah! amid thy sweet romantic shade,
By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,
Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.
Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,
Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.

Despair across his joys now intervenes,
And sternly bids the little cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.
His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.

Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom,