I, LIKE the shaded nightingale, would sing
In some far bower, amidst the woods, alone,
With nought but the wild streamlet's murmuring
To give my bosom-strings their plaintive tone;
Or the bleak winds that thro' the forest moan
To prompt with their rude minstrelsy my lay,
When to pale Dian on her silver throne
My unbesought addresses I can pay.
But expectation chills my vein of song;
Even the prayer of beauty or desert,
Breathed e'er so warm, so fervently, and long,
Freezes the well of passion at my heart!
What then? — I chant some worthless strain, until
Deep-ear'd attention quickly has her fill.