 | Poems |  |
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THE NIGHTINGALE.
I
Sweet Nightingale! thine is a lovely song,And well accordeth with these moonlight hours;
The green old trees thou warblest now among
Seem listening silent as the folded flowers;
A mute-lipped audience all, who bow profound,
Beneath the whispering wind, that bears so rich a sound.
II
What countless years, gray on the scroll of time,Hath thy rich music charmed the ancient earth;
When Eden's rosy vales were free from crime,
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Thy song was heard,—bringing to Eve repose,
When her long unbound locks drooped o'er the thornless rose.
III
And angel forms, that trod the enamelled green,Have often hovered near the tiger's lair,
Hearkening to thee; for then they might be seen,
By some lone dell, or glade that opened fair:
Or bird-like pausing o'er the palm-trees high,
Ere their expanded wings swept through the silent sky.
IV
Now all is still: the river's distant roll,Low murmuring onward, makes a wailing moan;
The silvery-footed dew that downward stole,
Now decks the bramble like an eastern throne:
The moonbeams sleep among the dreamy trees,
Like halcyons pillowed on the wild and waveless seas.
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V
That thou wert once a woman I believe,Or such rare music never had been thine;
Poor bird! thou doubtless hadst much cause to grieve,
And vowed a vow at melody's sweet shrine,
Before the echoing altar, that all night
Harmonious thou wouldst watch, and warble back the light.
VI
The moon, the stars, darkness, the oldest gloom,Are all familiar with thy witching lay;
The brook, the trees, the bud, the opening bloom,
The quiet wood, the first faint streak of day,
These all have heard thee; e'en the thunder grim,
When breaking from the cloud, stopped not thy silvery hymn.
VII
And I have heard thee when my heart was sad,And strangely thy soft notes did suit my woe;
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Just as the feeling seemed to come or go;
In darkness, in old forests, wild and lone,
I oft have listened to thee till the break of dawn.
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