Of power they were with new-born joy to move
The cheerless heart of long-desponding love;
Of power so strange, that should they cease to sound,
And the blithe songster flee the mystic ground,
That goodly orchard’s scene, the pine-tree’s shade,
Trees, flowers, and fount, would all like vapor fade.
‘Listen, listen to my lay!’
Thus the merry notes did chime,
‘All who mighty love obey,
Sadly wasting in your prime,