Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel! br How many Bards in city garret pent, br While at their window they with downward eye br Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud, br And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen br (Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!), br How many wretched Bards address thy name, br And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above. br But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark, br Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid br Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.