And had she ne’er felt love before, she would have felt it now.
A clapping loud of wings was heard: they look’d, and with delight
Beheld the stork, who with his mate had homeward wing’d his flight:
They had been far in southern climes[66], the swarthy tribes among;
What could they not relate, had they the power to use their tongue?
The stork now sought his clay-built nest all in the beechen grove:
Again over the daisied mead the cattle grazing rove:
And bursting from his tomb, soon as the sun resumed his power,
The butterfly each flower caress’d, himself a living flower,
The cold dissolves, while breezes mild and gentle fan the air: