| |
|
O
Nightingale! that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at
eve, when all the woods are still,
Thou with fresh
hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly
hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that
close the eye of day,
First heard before the shallow
cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love; O, if Jove's
will
Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell
my hopeless doom in some grove nigh;
As thou from
year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet
hadst no reason why:
Whether the Muse, or Love, call
thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train
am I.
|
|
|
