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Poetics

Or, a series of poems, and disquisitions on poetry. By George Dyer

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ODE XIII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
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ODE XIII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

Sweet songster! that unseen, unknown,
Dost strain thy little, heaving breast;
Why dost thou warble still alone,
Wakeful, while other songsters rest?
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.
Yet oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?
Why warble still the lonesome lay?
Those notes, which smooth the brow of night,
Might wake the genial smile of day.
But tho' thou shunn'st my wistful sight,
So melting-soft thou wont to sing,
I deem thee not a bird of night,
But hail thee Poet of the Spring.