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of dark and glossy tresses, Humbly I request, In Dol Aeron’s green recesses, Thee to be my guest, At a feast—but not of food Fit for husbandman’s repast, Or for Saxon —comrade rude! Not of flesh that might supply Nuptial festivity— Not of mingled wheat and rye, Meet to break a reaper’s fast:— On no other sweets we’ll feed Than the nightingale and mead!
 * In that room above thy head,

Birchen boughs their shelter spread,— Beauteous spot of fairest ground, For the deer to range around, For grey Philomel’s clear wail, And the thrush’s merry tale. There nine trees together stand, Mid the woods, (oh! lovely band,)