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her virgin heart; what ſimile more apt to excite the ſympathetic tear, than the turtle-dove forlorn, who mourns, with never-ceaſing wail, her murdered mate? Who can refuſe a ſigh to the ſadly-pleaſing ſtrains of Philomela?
When returning with her loaded bill,
Th' aſtoniſhed mother finds a vacant neſt,
By the hard hand of unrelenting clowns,
Robb’d: to the ground the vain proviſion falls;
Her pinions ruffe, and low-drooping, ſcarce
Can bear the mourner to the poplar ſhade,
Where, all abandon’d to deſpair, ſhe ſings
Her
