ODE XII.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
I
Sweet songstress, that unseen, unknown,
Dost strain thy little heaving breast,
Why dost thou wander still alone,
Wakeful, while other songsters rest?
II
Oft have I linger'd in the grove,
Charm'd with thy soothing, melting song;
It told—or seem'd to tell—of love—
Nor was the night, tho' darksome, long.
III
“Yet oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?
“Why warble still the lonesome lay?
“Those notes that smooth the brow of night,
“Might wake the genial smile of day.
IV
Thus have I cried; yet cried in vain:
And still the songstress of the grove
Warbled her unambitious strain,
As tho' her only care was, love.
But tho' she shun'd my wistful sight,
So mildly, sweetly would she sing,
I deem her not the bird of night,
But hail the poet of the spring.
[_]
N. B. In these lines, as before printed, the two ideas
concerning the Nightingale were preserved, one imaginary only,
that its note is plaintive; the other, the true one, that it is
pleasing, justifying the application of the title of “The Poet
of the Spring,” applied by Anacreon to the τεττιξ, called,
improperly, by some critics, The Grasshopper. The original was
printed many years ago in the Leicester Herald, and had
reference to some poetical compositions, published without a name
in a newspaper, by a lady who now possesses a character in the
literary world.
