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Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv’st unseen
Within thy airy shell,
By slow Meander's margent green,
Where the love-lorn nightingale
Oh! if thou have
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere,
So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies.
Sure something holy lodges in that breast,
My mother Circe with the Sirens three,
Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise
boast of skill, but extreme shift
What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus ?
Dim darkness, and this leafy labyrinth.
Could that divide you from near-ushering guides ?