Thus sings of where the woods of Gore grow wan:—
"The thought of thy white coming, like a song
Breathed soft of lovely lips and lute-like tongue,
Sways all my bosom with a sweet unrest;
Makes wild my heart that oft thy heart hath pressed.—
Come! press it once again, for it is strong
To bear that weight which never yet distressed.
"O come! and straight the woodland is stormed through
With wilder wings, and brighter with bright dew:
And every flow'r, where thy fair feet have passed,