Classic Poem

UPON HEARING MISS — — SING AT AN EVENING PARTY. THE NIGHTINGALE'S COMPLAINT.

The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave,
The dew-drop had moisten'd the moss of the cave,
The summer night-breeze, like a sigh, was just heard,
When thus flow'd the strains of the dark-warbling bird:

" I hear a strange melody breathe thro' the grove,
Now swelling with joy, and now melting with love;
Tho' sweet is the sound, yet it should not invade,
Unbidden, my lonely dominion of shade.

" As long as the stars that now twinkle shall shine,
This willow's my throne, and all nature is mine:
Perchance 'tis the breeze on your desolate lute;
Its strings are now sighing, so long that were mute.

" Ah! no, silly bird that I am! shall I grieve?
Shall Envy alarm, and shall Folly deceive?
'Tis the voice of Eliza! I hear it again,
Enraptur'd I hear it, nor envy the strain. "
Then Philomel flutter'd with tremulous wing
To Eliza — more happy to listen than sing!