Or say, the thrill of lost delight
That swells thy song at dismal night!
Whate'er, or grief, or love, be giv'n,
It sounds like choral peal from heav'n.
III.
Sing on, then sweetest songster dear,
Oh still arrest the charmed ear!
Through Soignies' wood Tervuren's grove,
Still chant the elegies of love!
"Thanks, my Adelaide, for thy sweet verses, I like them much, very much indeed, with the exception, perhaps, of the last line, the elegies of love; pray, my dear, you leave such larmoyantè lucubrations to the Hero and Leander of romance, or to their own Ovid; but, oh, let all his 'FASTI' [i. e. festivals] be thine! while succeeding years shall be noted with chalk in the bright calendar of thy days! Felices ter et ampliús essint!—'The elegies of love!' Why thou fain then believest, my Adelaide, that poor Philomela, as the tuneful Maro wrote,[54] pours forth her nightly plaint, and although she so sweetly sings, yet still thou fanciest the thorn of the rose rankles in her breast, while she renews at eve her melancholy song!"