Summer, whither art thou fled, with soft zephyrs sighing? Pleasant landscape, grove &
mead; all their beauties dying. Wintry winds begin to road, grove or landscape, charm
no more, time hath stole their bloom away; scenes of nature must decay. Withering
blasts shall soon assail and strew the leaves along the vale; nought can avert the
impending fate, sad emblems of our mortal state; so time shall all your charms deface
and triumph o’er thy beauteous face; his withering hand your blossoms spill; to my
advice then be inclin’d: improve the beauties of your mind: so shall you flourish in your
prime, nor feat the fading hand of time. Ye gentle Muses, now inspire the lay, while on
the blooming banks I raptor’d stray; and lead me propitious through the laureate vales.
Lo! What pleasing prospects spread ‘round woodland scenes, with wild notes resound.