 | Ballads and Lyrical poems |  |
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THE TWO NIGHTINGALES.
AN APOLOGUE FOR POETS.
In the deep quiet of an ancient wood,
Two nightingales, that since the sun had set
Had fill'd the enraptured solitude with song,
Sat silent for awhile, and thus began,
One with the other, interchange of thoughts.
Two nightingales, that since the sun had set
Had fill'd the enraptured solitude with song,
Sat silent for awhile, and thus began,
One with the other, interchange of thoughts.
“I'm weary,” said the one with weakest voice,
“Of singing all night long to these dull boughs,
With none to listen to my heavenly notes.
What are to me these green insensate woods,
Yon moon and stars, and the unheeding sky?
I would have lovers wander in the shade
At twilight hour, to listen to my voice
And call it beautiful. I would have youths,
Teeming with gentle fancies, quit their books,
And bend a willing ear to my sweet strains:
I would have sages hearken to my lay,
And own me poet of the pensive night.
Why should I waste my music on the winds,
Or how sing on, abandon'd to neglect?
I will away, and force the callous crowd
To be delighted. Through some city vast
My voice shall sound, till busy men shall stop,
And to my floods of swelling melody
Give ear enraptured. Brother, come away!”
“No,” said the other—“I am happy here;
To me all needless is the world's applause.
Amid these oaks, surrounded by these hills,
Lull'd by the dash of waters down the rocks,
Look'd on by moon and stars, leave me to sing.
My breast is full—my song an utterance
Of joy, that gives me joy to breathe it forth;
My song its own reward.—Why should I court
The ear of men, or pine in useless grief
That hither comes no audience for my lays?
Mine is a hymn of Gratitude and Love,
An overflowing from my inmost heart;
And if men listen and are pleased, not less
My pleasure in administering to theirs.
But if none care to hear my melodies,
Not the less happy would I be to sing.”
“Of singing all night long to these dull boughs,
With none to listen to my heavenly notes.
What are to me these green insensate woods,
Yon moon and stars, and the unheeding sky?
I would have lovers wander in the shade
At twilight hour, to listen to my voice
And call it beautiful. I would have youths,
Teeming with gentle fancies, quit their books,
And bend a willing ear to my sweet strains:
I would have sages hearken to my lay,
And own me poet of the pensive night.
Why should I waste my music on the winds,
Or how sing on, abandon'd to neglect?
I will away, and force the callous crowd
To be delighted. Through some city vast
My voice shall sound, till busy men shall stop,
And to my floods of swelling melody
Give ear enraptured. Brother, come away!”
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To me all needless is the world's applause.
Amid these oaks, surrounded by these hills,
Lull'd by the dash of waters down the rocks,
Look'd on by moon and stars, leave me to sing.
My breast is full—my song an utterance
Of joy, that gives me joy to breathe it forth;
My song its own reward.—Why should I court
The ear of men, or pine in useless grief
That hither comes no audience for my lays?
Mine is a hymn of Gratitude and Love,
An overflowing from my inmost heart;
And if men listen and are pleased, not less
My pleasure in administering to theirs.
But if none care to hear my melodies,
Not the less happy would I be to sing.”
“Thou poor in spirit!” said the first; “Not mine
This dull contentment, this ignoble peace,—
To which I leave thee. On adventurous wing
I take my flight to the abodes of men,
And they shall honour and exalt my name:—
So fare thee well!” and as he said, he flew
From his companion, scorning his low mind;
And ere the morning reach'd, on pinions free,
A vast, smoke-mantled, dim metropolis,
With domes and columns, spires and monuments,
And multitudinous chimneys tall as these,
Towering towards the ever hazy sky;
And here alighting on a house-top, sat,
And look'd about him. Far on every side
Stretch'd the long line of streets and thoroughfares,
Trod by a busy and impatient mass;
Church-bells rang heavily on the morning air,
And chariots rattled o'er the dusty stones.
Loud was the roaring of the multitude,
Loud was the clink of hammers on the ear,
And loud the whirling of incessant wheels,
Pistons and pumps, revolving cylinders,
And ever-hissing steam in factories vast.
But nothing daunted by the hubbub round,
And conscious of some utterance in himself,
The ambitious nightingale began his song.
'Twas a forced effort in the eye of Day,
For bird like him, by Night alone inspired;
But still he sang, and on the smoky air
Pour'd a full stream of no mean music forth.
Till sunny noon, till lamplit eve, he sang,
But no one listen'd: all men were absorb'd
In the pursuit of pleasure or of gain,
And had no time for melodies like his.
Weary at heart the nightingale became,
And disappointment rankled into hate:—
“Alas!” said he, “the age of song is past!
I'm born too late!—Merit has no reward;—
The cold, unfeeling, and most grovelling Crowd
Forsakes dear Poesy for love of wealth,
And all forlorn and desolate am I.”
This dull contentment, this ignoble peace,—
To which I leave thee. On adventurous wing
I take my flight to the abodes of men,
And they shall honour and exalt my name:—
So fare thee well!” and as he said, he flew
From his companion, scorning his low mind;
And ere the morning reach'd, on pinions free,
A vast, smoke-mantled, dim metropolis,
With domes and columns, spires and monuments,
And multitudinous chimneys tall as these,
Towering towards the ever hazy sky;
And here alighting on a house-top, sat,
And look'd about him. Far on every side
107
Trod by a busy and impatient mass;
Church-bells rang heavily on the morning air,
And chariots rattled o'er the dusty stones.
Loud was the roaring of the multitude,
Loud was the clink of hammers on the ear,
And loud the whirling of incessant wheels,
Pistons and pumps, revolving cylinders,
And ever-hissing steam in factories vast.
But nothing daunted by the hubbub round,
And conscious of some utterance in himself,
The ambitious nightingale began his song.
'Twas a forced effort in the eye of Day,
For bird like him, by Night alone inspired;
But still he sang, and on the smoky air
Pour'd a full stream of no mean music forth.
Till sunny noon, till lamplit eve, he sang,
But no one listen'd: all men were absorb'd
In the pursuit of pleasure or of gain,
And had no time for melodies like his.
Weary at heart the nightingale became,
And disappointment rankled into hate:—
“Alas!” said he, “the age of song is past!
I'm born too late!—Merit has no reward;—
The cold, unfeeling, and most grovelling Crowd
Forsakes dear Poesy for love of wealth,
And all forlorn and desolate am I.”
So saying, he outstretch'd his wings, and fled
Back to his solitude, and sang no more;
And living voiceless—angry with himself,
And with the world—he died before his time,
And left no mourner to lament his fate.
Back to his solitude, and sang no more;
And living voiceless—angry with himself,
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And left no mourner to lament his fate.
The other nightingale, more wise than he,
With fuller voice and music more divine,
Stay'd in the woods, and sang but when inspired
By the sweet breathing of the midnight wind—
By the mysterious twinkling of the stars—
By adoration of the Great Supreme—
By Beauty in all hues and forms around—
By Love and Hope, and Gratitude and Joy;
And thus inspired, the atmosphere was rife
With the prolong'd sweet music that he made.
He sought no listeners—heedless of applause—
But sang as the stars shone, from inward light,
A blessing to himself and all who heard.
With fuller voice and music more divine,
Stay'd in the woods, and sang but when inspired
By the sweet breathing of the midnight wind—
By the mysterious twinkling of the stars—
By adoration of the Great Supreme—
By Beauty in all hues and forms around—
By Love and Hope, and Gratitude and Joy;
And thus inspired, the atmosphere was rife
With the prolong'd sweet music that he made.
He sought no listeners—heedless of applause—
But sang as the stars shone, from inward light,
A blessing to himself and all who heard.
The cotter, wending weary to his home,
Linger'd full oft to listen to his song,
And felt 'twas beautiful, and bless'd the strain;
And lonely students, wandering in the woods,
Loved nature more because this bird had sung.
Linger'd full oft to listen to his song,
And felt 'twas beautiful, and bless'd the strain;
And lonely students, wandering in the woods,
Loved nature more because this bird had sung.
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