THE NIGHTINGALE. Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn: The same that oft-times hath Dost thou once more essay Thy flight; and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change; Once more; and once more make resound, With love and hate, triumph and agony, Charmed magic casements opening on the Lone Daulis, and the high Cephisian vale? 55 How thick the bursts come crowding through MATTHEW ARNOLD THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE DOVE. O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art These notes of thine,-they pierce and pierce: Thou sing'st as if the god of wine A song in mockery, and despite Of shades, and dews, and silent night, Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. What triumph! hark-what pain! O wanderer from a Grecian shore, Say, will it never heal? Dost thou to-night behold, Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, I heard a stock-dove sing or say THE NIGHTINGALE. No cloud, no relict of the sunken day The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Distinguishes the West; no long thin slip Dost thou again peruse, With hot cheeks and seared eyes, Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, shame? But hear no murmuring it flows silently O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still; A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, And hark! the Nightingale begins its song-But never elsewhere in one place I knew With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, So many nightingales. And far and near, (And so, poor wretch! filled all things with Stirring the air with such a harmony, himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, the In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, sighs O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. My friend, and thou, our sister! we have A different lore: we may not thus profane That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moon-lit bushes, Glistening, while many a glowworm in the Lights up her love-torch. A most gentle maid, That gentle maid! and oft, a moment's space, With one sensation, and these wakeful birds Many a nightingale perched giddily On blossomy twig still swinging from the And to that motion tune his wanton song, Farewell, O warbler! till to-morrow eve; And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Thrills for one month o' th' year-is tranquil Who, capable of no articulate sound, all the rest. MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER. (Dutch) The evening-star; and once when he awoke Translation of JOHN BOWRING. In most distressful mood, (some inward pain dream,) I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well!- Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate joy.-Once more, farewell, Sweet Nightingale! Once more, my friends! farewell. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THE NIGHTINGALE. PRIZE thou the nightingale, Who soothes thee with his tale, A singing feather he-a winged and wandering sound; Whose tender caroling Unto that living lyre, Whence flow the airy notes his ecstacies inspire; Whose shrill, capricious song With many a careless tone Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue alone. THE NIGHTINGALE. THE rose looks out in the valley, To the rosy vale, where the nightingale 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, In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain, GIL VICENTE (Portuguese) Translation of JOHN BOWRING. THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE. 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 ESTEVAN MANUEL DE VILLEGAS. (Spanish) Translation of J. H. WIFFEN. 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." TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way! Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast.The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Whether on Spring thy wandering flights And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart: He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. |