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Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
A melancholy bird? Oh, idle thought!
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
(And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with him
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds, and shifting elements,
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Beloved like Nature! But 't will not be so;
My friend, and thou, our sister! we have learnt A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale, That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates, With fast, thick warble, his delicious notes, As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his fell soul Of all its music!
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge,
Thin grass and king-cups, grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere, in one place, I knew
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer, and provoke each other's song,
And murmurs musical, and swift jug-jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet than all; Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,
You may, perchance, behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glittering, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch!
A most gentle maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home,
(Even like a lady vow'd and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways: she knows all their
That gentle maid! and oft a moment's space,
Hath heard a pause of silence, till the moon
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
Farewell, O warbler! till to-morrow eve; And you, my friends, farewell-a short farewell! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes. That strain again? Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
I hurried with him to our orchard's plot,
And he beheld the moon; and, hush'd at once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with undropp'd tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moonbeam! Well!It is a father's tale; but if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
THE BIRD'S NEST.
BUT most of all it wins my
To view the structure of this little work,
A bird's nest. Mark it well, within, without.
No glue to join: his little beak was all,
And yet how neatly finish'd. What nice hand,