Ill news so truly, why not good as well?”
And ah! that instant, in his joyful sight,
Alighting from blue sky, in soft, smooth flight,
On the green turf a pair of milk-white doves
Such as flit where his Mother, Venus, moves.
“After them! Oh! to guess whither they make,
And match their speed whatever course they take!”
Fain would he think the rate was, as they flew,
Ruled for pursuit to keep them just in view,
To the dark arbour where a yellow glow