Nor spin—and still none hunger knows.
“Raise, then, thy head! Dream not of woe,
Who human bosoms loves to sway!
Again I bid thee look—for lo!
All else but thee wear smiles to-day!”
Sweet bird! reprove no more;—thy song
Shames these sad feelings in my breast,
Which it hath cherished far too long,
As if some welcome angel-guest.
I own, if cherish’d, they too soon,