Why, when I hear the stormy breath
 Of the wild winter wind
Rushing o'er the mountain heath,
 Does sadness fill my mind? 
For long ago I loved to lie
 Upon the pathless moor,
To hear the wild wind rushing by
 With never ceasing roar;

Its sound was music then to me;
 Its wild and lofty voice
Made by heart beat exultingly
 And my whole soul rejoice.

But now, how different is the sound?
 It takes another tone,
And howls along the barren ground
 With melancholy moan.

Why does the warm light of the sun
 No longer cheer my eyes?
And why is all the beauty gone
 From rosy morning skies?

Beneath this lone and dreary hill
 There is a lovely vale;
The purling of a crystal rill,
 The sighing of the gale,

The sweet voice of the singing bird,
 The wind among the trees,
Are ever in that valley heard;
 While every passing breeze

Is loaded with the pleasant scent
 Of wild and lovely flowers.
To yonder vales I often went 
 To pass my evening hours.

Last evening when I wandered there
 To soothe my weary heart,
Why did the unexpected tear
 From my sad eyelid start?

Why did the trees, the buds, the stream
 Sing forth so joylessly?
And why did all the valley seem
 So sadly changed to me?

I plucked a primrose young and pale
 That grew beneath a tree
And then I hastened from the vale
 Silent and thoughtfully.

Soon I was near my lofty home,
 But when I cast my eye
Upon that flower so fair and lone
 Why did I heave a sigh?

I thought of taking it again
 To the valley where it grew.
But soon I spurned that thought as vain
 And weak and childish too.

And then I cast that flower away
 To die and wither there;
But when I found it dead today
 Why did I shed a tear?

O why are things so changed to me?
 What gave me joy before
Now fills my heart with misery,
 And nature smiles no more.

And why are all the beauties gone 
 From this my native hill?
Alas! my heart is changed alone:
 Nature is constant still.

For when the heart is free from care,
 Whatever meets the eye 
Is bright, and every sound we hear
 Is full of melody.

The sweetest strain, the wildest wind,
 The murmur of a stream,
To the sad and weary mind
 Like doleful death knells seem.

Father! thou hast long been dead,
 Mother! thou art gone,
Brother! thou art far away,
 And I am left alone.

Long before my mother died
 I was sad and lone,
And when she departed too
 Every joy was flown.

But the world's before me now,
 Why should I despair?
I will not spend my days in vain,
 I will not linger here! 

There is still a cherished hope
 To cheer me on my way;
It is burning in my heart
 With a feeble ray.

I will cheer the feeble spark
 And raise it to a flame;
And it shall light me through the world,
 And lead me on to fame.

I leave thee then, my childhood's home,
 For all thy joys are gone;
I leave thee through the world to roam
 In search of fair renown,

From such a hopeless home to part
 Is happiness to me,
For nought can charm my weary heart
 Except activity.