Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh.
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why:
Whether the muse or love call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
John Milton.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
APRIL, 1798.
No cloud, no relic of the sunken day,