And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to share.
III.
What though the sportive dog oft round them note,
Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who in love’s own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the spring,
Or writhing from the brook its victim bring?
No!—nor let fear one little warbler rouse;
But, fed by Gertrude’s hand, still let them sing,
Acquaintance of her path, amidst the boughs,