With eager thought warbling his [Doric] lay:
And now the sun [had stretched out all the hills], 190
And now was dropt into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue;
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
SONNETS.
I.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O Nightingale that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,