O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still;
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall
find
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood;
And the trim walks are broken up; and grass,
Thin grass and kingcups grow within the patha
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song-But never elsewhere in one place I knew
"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!
A melancholy bird! Oh, idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man, whose heart
was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
So many nightingales. And far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than
all-
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with Stirring the air with such a harmony,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
Of his own sorrow)-he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit-
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his
limbs
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moonlight; to the influxes
Of shapes, and sounds, and shifting elements,
Surrendering his whole spirit; of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
Should share in Nature's immortality-
A venerable thing!-and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilights of the
Spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their
sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My friend, and thou, our sister! we have
learnt
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
That should you close your eyes, you might
Forget it was not day! On moon-lit bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both
bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glowworm in the
shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve,
(Even like a lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove,)
Glides through the pathways-she knows all
their notes,
That gentle maid! and oft, a moment's space,
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon,
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath
watched
Many a nightingale perched giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the
breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song,
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, O warbler! till to-morrow eve; And you, my friends! farewell, a short fare well!
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Thrills for one month o' th' year—is tranquil Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
Ilis little hand, the small forefinger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows
well
The evening-star; and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood, (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's
dream,)
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon; and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undrop-
ped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well!-
It is a father's tale; but if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow
up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy.-Once more, farewell, Sweet Nightingale! Once more, my friends! farewell.
PRIZE thou the nightingale,
Who soothes thee with his tale,
And wakes the woods around;
A singing feather he-a winged and wandering sound;
Whose tender caroling
Sets all ears listening
Unto that living lyre,
Whence flow the airy notes his ecstacies inspire:
Whose shrili, capricious song
Breathes like a flute along,
With many a careless tone
Music of thousand tongues, formed by one
Thee wondrous we may call—
Most wondrous this of all,
That such a tiny throat
Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud a note.
MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER. (Dutch) Translation of JoHN Bowring.
THE rose looks out in the valley,
And thither will I go!
To the rosy vale, where the nightingalo
Sings his song of woe.
The virgin is on the river side,
Culling the lemons pale: Thither yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale Sings his song of woe.
The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 'Tis for her lover all:
Thither yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale,
Sings his song of woe.
In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,
She has placed the lemons pale:
Thither yes! thither will I go,
To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.
GIL VICENTE (Portuguese)
Translation of JOHN Bowring.
I HAVE seen a nightingale
On a sprig of thyme bewail, Seeing the dear nest, which was Hers alone, borne off, alas!
By a laborer; I heard,
For this outrage, the poor bird
Say a thousand mournful things
To the wind, which, on its wings,
From her to the guardian of the sky,
Bore her melancholy cry—
Bore her tender tears. She spake
As if her fond heart would break:
One while, in a sad, sweet note,
Gurgled from her straining throat,
She enforced her piteous tale,
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail;
One while, with the shrill dispute
Quite outwearied, she was mute;
Then afresh, for her dear brood,
Her harmonious shrieks renewed.
Now she winged it round and round;
Now she skimmed along the ground;
Now, from bough to bough, in haste,
The delighted robber chased,
And, alighting in his path,
Seemed to say, 'twixt grief and wrath,
"Give me back, fierce rustic rude-
Give me back my pretty brood!"
And I saw the rustic still
Answered, That, I never will!"
ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS. (Spanish) Translation of THOMAS ROSCOE.
THE NIGHTINGALE'S DEPARTURE.
SWEET poet of the woods-a long adieu!
Farewell, soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 't will be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on "the night's dull ear."
Whether on Spring thy wandering flights
Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive Muse shall own thee for her mate,
And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide
Through the long brake that shades thy
And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide
The gentle bird who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow, and to love! CHARLOTTE SMITH.
UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see
But Winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall he see
But Winter and rough weather.
COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE
Come to these scenes of peace,
Where, to rivers murmuring,
The sweet birds all the Summer sing,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease!
Stranger, does thy heart deplore
Friends whom thou wilt see no more?
Does thy wounded spirit prove
Pangs of hopeless, severed love?
Thee, the stream that gushes clear-
Thee, the birds that carol near
Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie
And dream of their wild lullaby;
Come to bless these scenes of peace,
Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease.
WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES
Ok! when 'tis summer weather,
And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The waters clear is humming round,
And the cuckoo sings unseen,
And the leaves are waving green-
Oh! then 't is sweet,
In some retreat,
To hear the murmuring dove,
With those whom on earth alone we love, And to wind through the greenwood together.
But when 'tis winter weather,
And crosses grieve,
And friends deceive,
And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,—
Oh! then 'tis sweet
How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays:
And their incessant labors see
Crowned from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flowers, and trees, do close,
To weave the garlands of repose.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name
Little, alas! they know or heed,
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
Of the friends with whom, in the days of No name shall but your own be found.
We roamed through the greenwood together. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat.
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