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95

On the Death of Lesbia's Sparrow.

Ye Graces, weep! ye Loves, complain!
Lament, ye men of softer vein!
Her soul's delight, her Sparrow dies,
More loved by Lesbia than her eyes:
The sweetest bird! as honey mild!
He follow'd Lesbia like a child—
He never from her bosom stray'd,
For her alone he fondly play'd,
Now here, now there, while leaping light,
He chirp'd his lay and charm'd her sight;
Who now a dreary road must fly,
Whence all return the fates deny.
Ye shades of death, ye shades unblest,
May tenfold gloom your realms invest!
On all that lovely lives ye prey,
Ye tore my lovely bird away.
Oh luckless bird! Oh cruel deed!
For thee my heart is doom'd to bleed—
For thee forlorn my Love appears,
Swoln her soft eyes and red with tears!