THIS is a spray the Bird clung to,       Making it blossom with pleasure,     Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,       Fit for her nest and her treasure.       O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

    This is a heart the Queen leant on,       Thrill'd in a minute erratic,     Ere the true bosom she bent on,       Meet for love's regal dalmatic.       O, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on— Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!