Sad the bird that sings alone, Flies to wilds unseen to languish, Mine, O hapless bird, thy fate, The plunder'd nest, the lonely sorrow, The lost, loved, harmonious mate, The wailing night, the chearless morrow.- O thou dear hoard of treasured love, Though these fond arms should ne'er possess thee, Still, still my heart its faith shall prove, And its last sighs shall breathe to bless thee. THE NURSING OF LOVE. LAP'D on Cythera's golden sands When first True Love was born on Earth, Long was the doubt what fost'ring hands Should tend and rear the glorious birth. First Hebe claimed the sweet employ, But anxious Venus justly fear'd The tricks and changeful mind of Youth; Too mild the seraph Peace appear'd, Too stern, too cold, the matron Truth; Next Fancy claim'd him for her own, She deem'd her Iris pinions shone |