"O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art" 1545

The spring comes back again, the fields rejoice,
Carols of gladness ring from every tree;
But I shall hear thy wild triumphant voice
No more: my summer song has died with thee.

What didst thou sing of, O my summer bird?
The broad, bright, brimming river, whose swift sweep
And whirling eddies by the home are heard,
Rushing, resistless, to the calling deep.

What didst thou sing of, thou melodious sprite?
Pine forests, with smooth russet carpets spread,
Where e'en at noonday dimly falls the light,
Through gloomy blue-green branches overhead.

What didst thou sing of, O thou jubilant soul?
Ever-fresh flowers and never-leafless trees,
Bending great ivory cups to the control

Of the soft swaying, orange scented breeze.

What didst thou sing of, thou embodied glee?
The wide wild marshes with their clashing reeds
And topaz-tinted channels, where the sea

Daily its tides of briny freshness leads.

What didst thou sing of, O thou wingèd voice?

Dark, bronze-leaved oaks, with silver mosses crowned, Where thy free kindred live, love, and rejoice, With wreaths of golden jasmine curtained round.

These didst thou sing of, spirit of delight!

From thy own radiant sky, thou quivering spark! These thy sweet southern dreams of warmth and light, Through the grim northern winter drear and dark.

Frances Anne Kemble [1809-1893]

"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART"

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art

A creature of a "fiery heart":

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite

Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze:

He did not cease, but cooed-and cooed;
And somewhat pensively he wooed:
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;

Of serious faith, and inward glee;

That was the Song-the Song for me!

William Wordsworth (1770-1850]

PHILOMEL

As it fell upon a day

In the merry month of May,

Sitting in a pleasant shade

Which a grove of myrtles made,

Beasts did leap and birds did sing,

Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn

Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st ditty.
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie! now would she cry;
Tereu, Tereu! by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.

Philomela

Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:

Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,

All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,

None alive will pity me.

1547

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,

Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain

That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-world painSay, will it never heal?

And can this fragrant lawn

With its cool trees, and night,

And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm?

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,

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

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
Down secret ways of the flowing shade;

And the waveless stream has a murmuring whisper
Where the alders wave.

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
Where once Theocritus sang and played—
Thy Thracian song is the old new wonder,
O moon-white maid!

William Sharp [1855-1905]

TO THE NIGHTINGALE

DEAR chorister, who from those shadows sends,
Ere that the blushing morn dare show her light,
Such sad lamenting strains, that night attends,
Become all ear, stars stay to hear thy plight:

The Nightingale

If one whose grief even reach of thought transcends,
Who ne'er, not in a dream, did taste delight,
May thee importune who like care pretends,
And seems to joy in woe, in woe's despite;
Tell me (so may thou fortune milder try,

And long, long sing) for what thou thus complains,
Since, winter gone, the sun in dappled sky

1549

Now smiles on meadows, mountains, woods, and plains? The bird, as if my questions did her move,

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
Awhile to rule the vacant sky,
Till she shall to her lamp supply
A stream of brighter rays.

Propitious send thy golden ray,
Thou purest light above:

Let no false flame seduce to stray
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;
But lead where music's healing charm
May soothe afflicted love.

To them, by many a grateful song
In happier seasons vowed,
These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong:
Oft by yon silver stream we walked,
Or fixed, while Philomela talked,
Beneath yon copses stood.

Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs
That roofless tower invade,

We came, while her enchanting Muse
The radiant moon above us held:
Till, by a clamorous owl compelled,
She fled the solemn shade.