The cuckow her ballad renew’d,
And mix’d with the music her sound—
Forgive me ye pow’rs! if I bow’d
To worship a form so divine,
A mortal might sure be allow’d
To bend at a goddess’s shrine.
I gaz’d as each look were my last;
With rapture I think on her now—
And said as she carelessly pass’d,
‘Thy name to thy vot’ry avow—