THE NIGHTINGALE;A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,But hear no murmuring: it flows silentlyO’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,“Most musical, most melancholy”1Bird!A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!In nature there is nothing melancholy.—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’dWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper or neglected love,(And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himselfAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrows) he and such as heFirst nam’d these notes a melancholy strain;And many a poet echoes the conceit,Poet, who hath been building up the rhymeWhen he had better far have stretch’d his limbsBeside a brook in mossy forest-dellBy sun or moonlight, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in nature’s immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all nature lovelier, and itselfBe lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poeticalWho lose the deep’ning twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature’s sweet voices always full of loveAnd joyance! ’Tis the merry NightingaleThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful, that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music! And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle hugeWhich the great lord inhabits not: and soThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.But never elsewhere in one place I knewSo many Nightingales: and far and nearIn wood and thicket over the wide groveThey answer and provoke each other’s songs—With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jugAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all—Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos’d,You may perchance behold them on the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shadeLights up her love-torch.A most gentle maidWho dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the Castle, and at latest eve,(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicateTo something more than nature in the grove)Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence: till the MoonEmerging, hath awaken’d earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful BirdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,As if one quick and sudden Gale had sweptAn hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’dMany a Nightingale perch giddilyOn blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton song,Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.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,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature’s playmate. He knows wellThe evening star: and once when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)I hurried with him to our orchard plot,And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at onceSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tearsDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—It is a father’s tale. But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate Joy! Once more farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.Footnote 1(return): “Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore adramaticpropriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.
No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,But hear no murmuring: it flows silentlyO’er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and tho’ the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,“Most musical, most melancholy”1Bird!A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!In nature there is nothing melancholy.—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc’dWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper or neglected love,(And so, poor Wretch! fill’d all things with himselfAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrows) he and such as heFirst nam’d these notes a melancholy strain;And many a poet echoes the conceit,Poet, who hath been building up the rhymeWhen he had better far have stretch’d his limbsBeside a brook in mossy forest-dellBy sun or moonlight, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in nature’s immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all nature lovelier, and itselfBe lov’d, like nature!—But ’twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poeticalWho lose the deep’ning twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO’er Philomela’s pity-pleading strains.My Friend, and my Friend’s Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature’s sweet voices always full of loveAnd joyance! ’Tis the merry NightingaleThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful, that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music! And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle hugeWhich the great lord inhabits not: and soThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.But never elsewhere in one place I knewSo many Nightingales: and far and nearIn wood and thicket over the wide groveThey answer and provoke each other’s songs—With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jugAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all—Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos’d,You may perchance behold them on the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shadeLights up her love-torch.A most gentle maidWho dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the Castle, and at latest eve,(Even like a Lady vow’d and dedicateTo something more than nature in the grove)Glides thro’ the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment’s space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence: till the MoonEmerging, hath awaken’d earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful BirdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,As if one quick and sudden Gale had sweptAn hundred airy harps! And she hath watch’dMany a Nightingale perch giddilyOn blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton song,Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.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,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature’s playmate. He knows wellThe evening star: and once when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad made up that strange thing, an infant’s dream)I hurried with him to our orchard plot,And he beholds the moon, and hush’d at onceSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tearsDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—It is a father’s tale. But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate Joy! Once more farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
Footnote 1(return): “Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description: it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore adramaticpropriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton: a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.