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Yet walkest thou not in vain, sweet Eve,
At least to-night, we may believe,
From this resplendent face,
Though oft denial, breeding doubt,
Leave not thy cheeriest look without
Its melancholy grace.
TO THE CUCKOO IN SPRING.
O Solitary of the Spring,
Why still, this heavenly morn,
Must thou of future glories sing,
And blessings to be born?
O cease, thou tedious Prophet, cease!
Here let the heart delay,
And taste a moment's perfect peace
Before it pass away!
—Still louder and with louder glee
The Cuckoo preached he bolder,
Of something better yet to be
When Time should be yet older.
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