In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, br And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire: br The birds in vain their amorous descant join; br Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: br These ears, alas! for other notes repine, br A different object do these eyes require: br My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine; br And in my breast the imperfect joys expire. br Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer, br And new-born pleasure brings to happier men: br The fields to all their wonted tribute bear; br To warm their little loves the birds complain: br I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear, br And weep the more, because I weep in vain.