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THE NIGHTINGALE;

A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL,

1798.

NO cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
Put hear no murmuring; it flows silently
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
“ Most musical, most melancholy'* Bird !

*.Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description : It is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic

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A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
-But some night-wandering Man, whose

heart was pierc'd
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with

himself
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrows) he, and such as he,
First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs.
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or inoonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thingi!, and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself

propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line iu Milton: A charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.

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Be lov'd, like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical
Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity pleasing strains.
My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have

learnt
A different lore; we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitatcs
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful, that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music! And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and

grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the

paths, Lut never elsewhere in one place I knew So many Nightingales; and far and near In wood and thicket over the wide grove They answer and provoke each others songs . With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug, jug,

And one low piping sound more sweet thanall
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
That should

you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright

and full, Glist'ning, while many a glow-worm in the

shade Lights up her love-torch.

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A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve

co (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove): Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their

notes, That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky Withi one sensation, and those wakeful Birds Have all burst forth i'ekorallsinstrelsy, ys:T As if one quickland sudden Gale had strept An hundred'airy hargg! And she hath watch'd

Many a Nightingale perch giddily
On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! -till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends! farewell, a short fare

well! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.--That strain

again! Full fain it would delay me!--My dear Babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's playmate. He knows

well The evening star; and once when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's

Jream) I hurried with him to our orchard plot, And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes that swam with undropit

tears

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