A
SONG
.
BY
THE
SAME
.
YE
scenes
that
engag'd
my
gay
youth
,
Say
,
whither
so
fast
do
ye
fly
?
If
the
lesson
you
told
me
was
truth
,
Ah
!
why
do
ye
fade
from
my
eye
?
That
meadow
where
often
I
stray'd
,
That
bank
,
and
yon
shadowy
tree
,
Those
streams
,
with
such
fondness
survey'd
,
Have
hid
all
their
sweetness
from
me
.
Yon
hill
that
uprears
his
smooth
head
,
Where
the
wild-thyme
its
fragrance
bestows
,
Whose
verdures
have
rose
from
my
bed
,
And
whose
breezes
have
sigh'd
my
repose
.
What
tho'
from
his
summit
so
high
.
Flock
,
cottage
,
and
woodland
are
seen
;
Yet
no
more
I
with
fondness
descry
,
For
indifference
rises
between
.
Ah
!
whither
,
ye
sweets
,
do
ye
fly
?
For
fancy
your
absence
must
mourn
;
Ah
!
say
,
will
ye
fade
from
my
eye
,
And
yet
will
ye
never
return
?
That
valley
,
whose
mantle
so
gay
,
Is
with
primrose
and
cowslip
o'erspread
;
No
longer
invites
me
to
stray
,
And
rifle
the
sweets
of
their
bed
.
Not
odious
at
present
they
look
;
I
discern
that
their
colours
are
bright
;
But
their
charms
have
my
fancy
forsook
,
And
their
fragrance
forgot
to
delight
.
To
my
cooler
attention
how
dear
The
soothing
complaint
of
the
dove
!
I
have
left
my
companions
to
hear
The
wood-linnet
warble
her
love
.
Nor
these
can
my
footsteps
retard
;
Or
if
round
me
they
carelessly
fly
,
From
mine
eyes
they
attract
no
regard
,
And
my
ears
their
soft
warblings
deny
.
Ah
!
sure
'tis
the
bus'ness
of
life
,
That
bids
those
endearments
depart
;
To
involve
us
in
cares
and
in
strife
,
That
estrange
and
entangle
the
heart
.
With
destiny
all
must
comply
;
Yet
cannot
my
fancy
but
mourn
,
For
the
season
that
fades
from
my
eye
,
And
the
sweets
that
must
never
return
.