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A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798.
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No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
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Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
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Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
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Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
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You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
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But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
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O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
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A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,
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Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
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That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
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A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
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And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
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"Most musical, most melancholy" (1) Bird!
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A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
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In nature there is nothing melancholy.
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—But some night-wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd
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With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
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Or slow distemper or neglected love,
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(And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself
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And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
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Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
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First nam'd these notes a melancholy strain;
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And many a poet echoes the conceit,
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Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
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When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
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Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell
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By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
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Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
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Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
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And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
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Should share in nature's immortality,
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A venerable thing! and so his song
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Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
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Be lov'd, like nature!—But 'twill not be so;
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And youths and maidens most poetical
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Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
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In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
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Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
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O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
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My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt
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A different lore: we may not thus profane
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Nature's sweet voices always full of love
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And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
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That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
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With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
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As he were fearful, that an April night
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Would be too short for him to utter forth
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His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
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Of all its music! And I know a grove
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Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
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Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
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This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
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And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
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Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
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But never elsewhere in one place I knew
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So many Nightingales: and far and near
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In wood and thicket over the wide grove
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They answer and provoke each other's songs—
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With skirmish and capricious passagings,
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And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
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And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
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Stirring the air with such an harmony,
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That should you close your eyes, you might almost
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Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
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Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd,
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You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
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Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
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Glistning, while many a glow-worm in the shade
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Lights up her love-torch.
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Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
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Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
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(Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate
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To something more than nature in the grove)
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Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,
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That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,
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What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
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Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon
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Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
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With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
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Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
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As if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
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An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd
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Many a Nightingale perch giddily
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On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
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And to that motion tune his wanton song,
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Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
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Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
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And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
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We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
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And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!
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Full fain it would delay me!—My dear Babe,
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Who, capable of no articulate sound,
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Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
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How he would place his hand beside his ear,
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His little hand, the small forefinger up,
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And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
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To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
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The evening star: and once when he awoke
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In most distressful mood (some inward pain
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Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)
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I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
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And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once
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Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
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While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
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Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well—
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It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven
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Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
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Familiar with these songs, that with the night
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He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,
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Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
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