Volume 3 — SONNET XXIII. TO MISS E. S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter’s flown, That the brook’s verge is green;—and bid thee hear, In yon irriguous vale, the blackbird clear, At measur’d intervals, with mellow tone, Choiring the hours of prime? and call thine ear[78] To the gay viol dinning in the dale, With tabor loud, and bag-pipe’s rustic drone To merry shearer’s dance;—or jest retail From festal board, from choral roofs the song; And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?— Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile, And bid me still the effort kind prolong; But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.