Ye Cupids, every Queen of Love,
Whate'er hath heart or beauty, shed
Your floods of tears, now hang the head--
My darling's sparrow, pet, and dove,
Is dead: that bird she prized above
Her own sweet eyes, is dead, is dead.
That little bird, that honey bird,
As fair child knows her mother, knew
His own own mistress; and he, too,
From her sweet bosom never stirred,
As prompt at every look and word,
He to that nest of softness flew.
But archly pert and debonnair,
Still further in he fondly nestled,
For her alone piped, chirped, and whistled.
But he has reached that dismal where,
Whose dreary path none ever dare
Retrace, with whom death once hath wrestled.
O Orcus' unrequiting shade,
Devouring all the good, the dear,
Couldst thou not spare one birdling here?
Alas, poor thing! for thou hast made
Her eyes, how loved, with grief o'erweighed,
Grow red, and gush with many a tear.