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47
AT DAWN.
All night I tossed without one hour of sleep,Lamenting for the sweet bride torn from me;
But now that in the glimmering east I see
The saffron-coloured morning upward creep,
No more for my Rhodanthe would I weep,
But rest awhile with poppied lids, if ye,
O twittering swallows, would but let me be,
Nor dart below my eaves with maddening cheep!
O swallows, swallows, 'twas not I that clipped
The tender tongue of Philomela fair,
Not I! Go shriek for Itylus elsewhere,
Before the feet of sleep have past me tripped!
Who knows? When I to dreamland shall have slipped,
The ghost of my dead love may meet me there!
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