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ORNE on the warm wing of the western gale, How tremulously low is heard to float Thro' the green budding thorns that fringe the vale, The early Nightingale's prelusive note.

'Tis Hope's instinctive power that through the grove Tells how benignant Heaven revives the earth; 'Tis the soft voice of young and timid Love That calls these melting sounds of sweetness forth.

With transport, once, sweet bird! I hail'd thy lay, And bade thee welcome to our shades again, To charm the wandering poet's pensive way And sooth the solitary lover's pain; But now!—such evils in my lot combine, As shut my languid sense—to Hope's dear voice and thine!