Woe! woe! since the primæval fall
The dirge of bliss was ever sung,
In each reverberating tongue,
The pregnant theme of grief for all.
The ground is cursed for thy sake;
Thy bread in sorrow shalt thou take.
Earth shall deny each pleasant blossom,
Ill weeds and thorns deform her bosom:—
As, heretofore, the dews of heaven
Did gently on the plains descend,
Henceforth to thee the task be given
The rugged soil to tend:—
Toiling, in sweat and agony of frame,
Till dust return to dust from whence it came.
Go, pluck from the blossoms the humming bird loves
The fairest that bloom amid Indian groves
Of odours so rare, and hues so bright.
That the senses faint with extreme delight:
Aye! add if you will of those that grace