THEN Love, reproachful, sighed: "Art thou become
Voiceless, who in my praise wast eloquent?
To wound my name unto high heaven is sent
A vain lamenting,—the exordium
Of fruitless plaint and chiding wearisome,—
While they to whom my chiefest joys are lent,
To worship me in silence are content!"
Love, even so: whom thou dost bless are dumb.
Listen! That strain of ecstasy and pain!
Far-echoing from Thrace, it breathes again,
Lost Philomela's passion to prolong;
Yet nested near in solitude, the dove—
Beneath thy very pinions, gracious Love!
Coos to her mate, but sings the world no song!