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I.
THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprang to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray’s, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!
II.
This is a heart the Queen leant on,Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love’s regal dalmatic. Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart’s, ere the wanderer went on— Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on! |