 | Poems |  |
114
To a Thrush,
That sung every evening under the Author's window during a Summer's residence in the country.
“E'l cantar che nell animo si senti.”—
As oft beneath the foliage gay,
I see thee perch'd on trembling spray,
Chants thou to departing day,
or sing'st to me?
If so, I'll tune a grateful lay,
sweet bird, to thee!
I see thee perch'd on trembling spray,
Chants thou to departing day,
or sing'st to me?
If so, I'll tune a grateful lay,
sweet bird, to thee!
Thou last sweet songster of the grove,
Whose notes of melody can move
The soul to softest melancholy,
Banishing all earth-born folly,
Sweetly sad thy song I find,
Harmonizing still my mind;
When the shades of evening hour,
On the face of nature lour,
Then thy soothing strain beginning,
The ear of mute attention winning;
Then thy warblings calm to rest
The griefs corroding in my breast:
O'er th'enraptured senses stealing,
The wounds of mental anguish healing;
As at my window chanting near,
Thy liquid melody I hear,
And rapt'rous hang upon thy lay,
As perch'd on cloud-embosom'd spray!
Thee I see, or catch thy note,
That doth on zephyr's pinion float,
Stealing on the lucid air,
Softly sweet, and shrilly clear;
Or dying in a cadence sweet,
Which Echo loveth to repeat,
Lest thy lay, harmonious bird!
Should by no ear, save her's, be heard,
Glad she takes th'expiring strain,
Then gives to me thy notes again!
Whose notes of melody can move
115
Banishing all earth-born folly,
Sweetly sad thy song I find,
Harmonizing still my mind;
When the shades of evening hour,
On the face of nature lour,
Then thy soothing strain beginning,
The ear of mute attention winning;
Then thy warblings calm to rest
The griefs corroding in my breast:
O'er th'enraptured senses stealing,
The wounds of mental anguish healing;
As at my window chanting near,
Thy liquid melody I hear,
And rapt'rous hang upon thy lay,
As perch'd on cloud-embosom'd spray!
Thee I see, or catch thy note,
That doth on zephyr's pinion float,
Stealing on the lucid air,
Softly sweet, and shrilly clear;
Or dying in a cadence sweet,
Which Echo loveth to repeat,
116
Should by no ear, save her's, be heard,
Glad she takes th'expiring strain,
Then gives to me thy notes again!
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