Wherefore, unlaurell'd Boy, br Whom the contemptuous Muse will not inspire, br With a sad kind of joy br Still sing'st thou to thy solitary lyre? br br The melancholy winds br Pour through unnumber'd reeds their idle woes, br And every Naiad finds br A stream to weep her sorrow as it flows. br br Her sighs unto the air br The Wood-maid's native oak doth broadly tell, br And Echo's fond despair br Intelligible rocks re-syllable.