SONG, IN IMITATION OF SHAKSPEARE'S

Blow, blow, thou vernal gale! Thy balm will not avail To ease my aching breast; Though thou the billows smooth, Thy murmurs cannot soothe My weary soul to rest.

Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream! Infuse the easy dream Into the peaceful soul; But thou canst not compose The tumult of my woes, Though soft thy waters roll.

Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers! Beauties surpassing yours My Rosalind adorn; Nor is the winter's blast, That lays your glories waste, So killing as her scorn.

Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays, That linger down the maze Of yonder winding grove; O let your soft control Bend her relenting soul To pity and to love.

Fade, fade, ye flowerets fair! Gales, fan no more the air! Ye streams forget to glide! Be hush'd, each vernal strain; Since nought can soothe my pain, Nor mitigate her pride.