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101
TO THE POET.
I
Wordsworth, the nightingales are come!They love the pleasant groves of Lee;
'Tis budding, billing, singing weather;
“Birds of a feather
Flock together.”
And where they are 'tis fit that you should be.
II
Poet, the nightingales are come!Their throats are now in perfect tune;
Yet you are gone away,
Though after May
These vernal melodies are almost dumb;
And seldom shall we hear in June
These shy, inconstant, poets of the moon.
102
III
Though passing fair is Rydal-mere,Nor Rotha's groves in music fail:
They only boast throughout the year
One solitary nightingale.
IV
Wordsworth is that dainty bird;But scores of nightingales are heard
Among the pleasant groves of Lee:
And where they are, 'tis fit that he should be;
Yet he is gone away
Upon the very day
They flock to greet the bard, and welcome in the May.
Lee Priory, April 30, 1824.
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