Classic Poem

ODE XII.

TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

I.

Sweet songstress, that unseen, unknown,
 Dost strain thy little heaving breast,
Why dost thou wander still alone,
 Wakeful, while other songsters rest?

II.

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.

III.

“Yet oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?
 “Why warble still the lonesome lay?
“Those notes that smooth the brow of night,
 “Might wake the genial smile of day.

IV.

Thus have I cried; yet cried in vain:
 And still the songstress of the grove
Warbled her unambitious strain,
 As tho' her only care was, love.

But tho' she shun'd my wistful sight,
 So mildly, sweetly would she sing,
I deem her not the bird of night,
 But hail the poet of the spring.