Classic Poem

The nightingale, in dead of night,
On some green hawthorn hid from sight,
Her wondrous art displays;
While all the feathered choir's at rest,
Nor fowler's snares her joys molest,
She sings melodious lays.

The groves her warbling notes repeat,
The silence makes her music sweet,
And heightens every note.
Benighted travellers admire
To hear her thus exerTher fire,
And swell her little throat.

No fear of phantoms, frightful noise,
Nor hideous form her bliss destroys;
Darkness no terror brings;
But each returning shade of night
Affords the songster new delight;
Unawed she sits and sings.

So children who are good and wise,
Hobgoblin stories will despise,
And all such idle tales;
Virtue can fortitude instil,
And ward off all impending ill
Which over vice prevails.