 | Poems |  |
119
TO A NIGHTINGALE.
“King Pandion he is dead;
And thy friends are lapped in lead.”
And thy friends are lapped in lead.”
Awake, thou melancholy bird,
Thy tale of ancient wrong,
For every shepherd's heart is stirred
To hear the solemn song.
Thy tale of ancient wrong,
For every shepherd's heart is stirred
To hear the solemn song.
From woods of Thrace in autumn hours,
No longer there to rest,
Thou cam'st into our western bowers,
To build awhile thy nest.
No longer there to rest,
Thou cam'st into our western bowers,
To build awhile thy nest.
The swallow lagged behind thy flight,
Nor yet has shown her wing,
Though skies are soft and full of light,
And groves are green with Spring.
Nor yet has shown her wing,
Though skies are soft and full of light,
And groves are green with Spring.
120
But vain are skies and groves to thee,
Whose days of joy are fled;
And vain the swallow o'er the sea
To all the lost, and dead!
Whose days of joy are fled;
And vain the swallow o'er the sea
To all the lost, and dead!
Yet wake, thou mournful bird, again;
Again thy woe impart,
And every heart that hears thy strain
Will grow a kindred heart.
Again thy woe impart,
And every heart that hears thy strain
Will grow a kindred heart.
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