A melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought! In nature there is nothing melancholy.
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
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 sorrow) 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 When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, 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 loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so; And youths and maidens most poetical, Who lose the deepening 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 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
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.
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 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 song, 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 a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moon-lit 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,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch.
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(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,
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 these wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd Many a nightingale perch'd giddily
On blossomy 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 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 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. COLERIDGE.
IN the greenest of our valley
N the greenest of our valleys,
Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—rear'd its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion- It stood there!
Never seraph waved a pinion Over fabric half so fair.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This-all this-was in the olden Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid A winged odour went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law, Round about a throne, where sitting (Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assail'd the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate !) And round about his home the glory That blush'd and bloom'd,
Is but a dim-remember'd story Of the old time entomb'd.
And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out for ever, And laugh-but smile no more.
HEPHERDS all, and maidens fair, Fold your flocks up, for the air
'Gins to thicken, and the sun Already his great course hath run. See the dew-drops how they kiss Every little flower that is;
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