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Save what the roving boys, in truant hour,
Snatch with rash hand, with eager haste devour,
And gazing sadly on the loaded tree,
Grieve that such sweets should e'er untasted be.
Clos'd are those blinds thro' which I us'd to trace
The smiling features of * * * * * *'s face,
And when no more I hear her accents say,
"Come in, my friend, O yet, a moment stay,"
No sound is heard amid the silent view,
Save the lone kitten's long, despairing mew,
My lay responsive joins the dismal strain,
As sad and slow, I wander back again.
Yet though your loss, dear friends, I daily mourn,
And selfish sorrow sometimes says, "return,"
Still the rash word mature reflection blames,
And back the quick, unfinish'd sentence claims;
No! stay, and view those scenes with beauty fraught,
Joy in the charms your tasteful care has wrought,
Rest in the shades of innocence and ease,
Catch the pure spirit of the mountain breeze,
And taste those rapturous hours, not often known,
Which nature sheds on virtue's friends alone.
But when drear Autumn's stern and nipping air
Shall strip the heights of Montevideo bare,
