TO
MISS E. S.
Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,
That the brook's verge is green;--and bid thee hear,
In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear,
At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone,
Choiring [1]the hours of prime? and call thine ear
To the gay viol dinning in the dale,
With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone
To merry Shearer's dance;--or jest retail
From festal board, from choral roofs the song;
And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile
The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?--
Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile,
And bid me still the effort kind prolong;
But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.
1: “While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime.” MILTON'S PAR. LOST.