XXII Written for ANGELA 1802.
XXII
Written for ANGELA
1802. [1]
How sweetly plaintive 'mid yon loftiest trees
The Woodquest pours his soft, sad notes of love;
With thrilling tenderness my soul they move,
Speaking of scenes most fair, and bowers of ease;
For there, ev'n there, those mellow tones could please,5
And lure us longer 'mid the woods to rove;
While the fond eye of love might yet reprove
The unbidden tear; and Hope's dear witcheries
Awhile deceive this too foreboding heart,
Which even then foresaw this hour would come,10
When, forc'd with Love itself at last to part,
The fairy flowers of Joy no more should bloom,
And mournful should those summer sounds appear,
Recalling with regret, hours of delight too dear!
