THE BOBOLINK.

How sweetly sang the bobolink,

When thou, my Love, wast nigh!

His liquid music from the brink

Of some cloud-fountain seemed to sink,

Built in the blue-domed sky.

How sadly sings the bobolink!

No more my Love is nigh:

Yet rise, my spirit, rise, and drink

Once more from that cloud-fountain's brink,—

Once more before I die!