O Solitary of the Spring,
Why still, this heavenly morn,
Must thou of future glories sing,
And blessings to be born?

O cease, thou tedious Prophet, cease!
Here let the heart delay,
And taste a moment's perfect peace
Before it pass away!

—Still louder and with louder glee
The Cuckoo preached he bolder,
Of something better yet to be
When Time should be yet older.