SONG
.
MY
days
have
been
so
wond'rous
free
,
The
little
Birds
that
fly
With
careless
ease
from
Tree
to
Tree
,
Were
but
as
bless'd
as
I
.
Ask
gliding
Waters
,
if
a
Tear
Of
mine
encreas'd
their
Stream
?
Or
ask
the
flying
Gales
,
if
e'er
I
lent
one
Sigh
to
them
?
But
now
my
former
Days
retire
,
And
I'm
by
Beauty
caught
,
The
tender
Chains
of
sweet
Desire
Are
fix't
upon
my
Thought
.
Ye
Nightingales
,
ye
twisting
Pines
!
Ye
Swains
that
haunt
the
Grove
!
Ye
gentle
Echoes
,
breezy
Winds
!
Ye
close
Retreats
of
Love
!
With
all
of
Nature
,
all
of
Art
,
Assist
the
dear
Design
;
O
teach
a
young
,
unpractic'd
Heart
,
To
make
my
Nancy
mine
.
The
very
Thought
of
Change
I
hate
,
As
much
as
of
Despair
;
Nor
ever
covet
to
be
great
,
Unless
it
be
for
her
.
'Tis
true
,
the
Passion
in
my
Mind
Is
mix'd
with
soft
Distress
;
Yet
while
the
Fair
I
love
is
kind
,
I
cannot
wish
it
Less
.