Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain, Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, All thy friends are lapped in lead; All thy fellow birds do sing Even so, poor bird, like thee, None alive will pity me. Richard Barnfield [1574-1627] PHILOMELA HARK! ah, the nightingale― The tawny-throated! Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!-what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world pain- And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, To the Nightingale Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia— 1499 How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again-thou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain! Matthew Arnold [1822-1888] ON A NIGHTINGALE IN APRIL THE yellow moon is a dancing phantom And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper Not a breath, not a sigh, save the slow stream's whisper: Only the moon is a dancing blade That leads a host of the Crescent warriors To a phantom raid. Out of the Lands of Faerie a summons, A long, strange cry that thrills through the glade:The gray-green glooms of the elm are stirring, Newly afraid. Last heard, white music, under the olives William Sharp (1855-1905] TO THE NIGHTINGALE DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends, If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends, And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains, Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? With trembling wings sobbed forth, "I love! I love!" William Drummond [1585-1649] THE NIGHTINGALE TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven With young Endymion stays; And now to Hesper it is given Till she shall to her lamp supply A stream of brighter rays. Propitious send thy golden ray, To them, by many a grateful song These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong: Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs We came, while her enchanting Muse The Nightingale But hark! I hear her liquid tone! Now, Hesper, guide my feet Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, See the green space: on either hand See, in the midst she takes her stand, Hark! how through many a melting note How sweetly down the void they float! The stars shine out; the forest bends; Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequestered spot, If then the plaintive Siren sing, O softly tread beneath her bower And think of Heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain lot. O think, o'er all this mortal stage How often virtue dwells with woe; How many griefs from knowledge flow; O sacred bird! let me at eve, 1501 Mark Akenside [1721-1770] TO THE NIGHTINGALE O NIGHTINGALE that on yon bloomy spray Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, John Milton [1608-1674] PHILOMELA THE Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing. O Philomela fair, O lake some gladness Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth. Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken; Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, |