xix.
Oh, bid me smile again, as in the time
When all the breezes seem'd to make a chime,
And all the birds on all the woodland slopes
Had trills for me, and seem'd to guess the hopes
That warm'd my heart. O thou whom I adore!
How proud were I,—though wounded bitter-sore
By shafts of doubt,—if, in default of love
I could but win thy friendship as of yore.