Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,
But various groups of death appear,
Scar'd at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,
And Sickness saddens all the year,
Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,
Your sense and manners charm us so,
E'en sick'ning Sorrow's self looks gay,
And smiles amid the wreck of woe.