The Despairing Lover Poem by Samuel Bamford

The winter wind is blowing,
With mournful sigh, o'er moor and dale;
The mountain stream is flowing,
With torrent rush, adown the vale,
So dreary, and weary,
The bird doth seek the leafless grove,
Which once run g as he sung,
In am'rous strain, his tale of love:
Now all is gloomy, dark and drear,
And nature mourns the summer o'er;
Bright Phoebus soon the scene will cheer,
But joy and love are mine no more.

No damsel e'er was fairer
Than her for whom in vain I mourn;
The beauteous, sweet ensnarer,
Bright as the gem from India borne:
Enchanting, nought wanting
To rivet fast the bonds of love;
Enchained and pained,
The horrors of despair I prove:
And ah! I nothing can bestow,
Save my poor heart that's wounded sore;
And she her proud disdain doth show,
And joy and love are mine no more.