With weary steps I loiter on
Tho' always under alter'd skies
The purple from the distance dies
My prospect and horizon gone
No joy the blowing season gives
The herald melodies of spring
But in the songs I love to sing
A doubtful gleam of solace lives
If any care for what is here
Survive in spirits render'd free
Then are these songs I sing of thee
Not all ungrateful to thine ear