There's not an echo round me,

But I am glad should learn,

How pure a fire has found me,

The love with which I burn.

For none attends with pleasure

To what I would reveal;

They slight me out of measure,

And laugh at all I feel.

The rocks receive less proudly

The story of my flame;

When I approach, they loudly

Reverberate his name.

I speak to them of sadness,

And comforts at a stand;

They bid me look for gladness,

And better days at hand.

Far from all habitation,

I heard a happy sound;

Big with the consolation,

That I have often found.

I said, “My lot is sorrow,

My grief has no alloy;”

The rocks replied—“Tomorrow,

Tomorrow brings thee joy.”

These sweet and sacred tidings,

What bliss it is to hear!

For, spite of all my chidings,

My weakness and my fear,

No sooner I receive them,

Than I forget my pain,

And, happy to believe them,

I love as much again.

I fly to scenes romantic,

Where never men resort;

For in an age so frantic

Impiety is sport.

For riot and confusion

They barter things above;

Condemning, as delusion,

The joy of perfect love.

In this sequestered corner,

None hears what I express;

Delivered from the scorner,

What peace do I possess!

Beneath the boughs reclining,

Or roving o'er the wild,

I live as undesigning

And harmless as a child.

No troubles here surprise me,

I innocently play,

While Providence supplies me,

And guards me all the day:

My dear and kind defender

Preserves me safely here,

From men of pomp and splendour,

Who fill a child with fear.