The Nightingale / William Wordsworth

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

  Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

  Of 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 silently

  O'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 showers

  That gladden the green earth, and we shall find

  A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

  And hark! the Nightingale begins its song

  "Most musical, most melancholy" [4] Bird!

  A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!

  In nature there is nothing melancholy.

  --But some night wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd

  With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,

  Or slow distemper or neglected love,

  (And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself

  And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale

  Of his own sorrows) he and such as he

  First named these notes a melancholy strain:

  And many a poet echoes the conceit;

  Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme

[Footnote 4: "_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 a _dramatic_ propriety. 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.]

  When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs

  Beside a 'brook in mossy forest-dell

  By sun or moonlight, to the influxes

  Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements

  Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song

  And of his fame forgetful! so his fame

  Should share in nature's immortality,

  A venerable thing! and so his song

  Should make all nature lovelier, and itself

  Be lov'd, like nature!--But 'twill not be so;

  And youths and maidens most poetical

  Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring

  In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still

  Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs

  O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

  My Friend, and my Friend's 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

  Hi? love-chant, and disburthen his full soul

  Of all its music! And I know a grove

  Of large extent, hard by a castle huge

  Which the great lord inhabits not: and so

  This 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 knew

  So many Nightingales: and far and near

  In wood and thicket over the wide grove

  They answer and provoke each other's songs--

  With skirmish and capricious passagings,

  And murmurs musical and swift jug jug

  And one low piping sound more sweet than all--

  Stirring the air with such an harmony,

  That should you close your eyes, you might almost

  Forget it was not day!

                         A most gentle maid

  Who dwelleth in her hospitable home

  Hard by die Castle, and at latest eve,

  (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate

  To 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 Moon

  Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky

  With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds

  Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,

  At if one quick and sudden Gale had swept

  An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd

  Many a Nightingale perch giddily

  On 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 wise

  To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well

  The evening star: and once when he awoke

  In most distressful mood (some inward pain

  Had 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 once

  Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,

  While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears

  Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam!  Well--

  It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven

  Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up

  Familiar with these songs, that with the night

  He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,

  Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.