Volume Iii Part 52 (1/2)
To-night retired, the queen of heaven With young Endymion stays; And now to Hesper it is given Awhile to rule the vacant sky, Till she shall to her lamp supply A stream of brighter rays....
Propitious send thy golden ray, Thou purest light above: Let no false flame seduce to stray Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm; But lead where music's healing charm May soothe afflicted love.
To them, by many a grateful song In happier seasons vowed, These lawns, Olympia's haunt, belong: Oft by yon silver stream we walked, Or fixed, while Philomela talked, Beneath yon copses stood.
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs That roofless tower invade, We came, while her enchanting Muse The radiant moon above us held: Till, by a clamorous owl compelled, She fled the solemn shade.
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!
Now, Hesper, guide my feet Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, Through yon wild thicket next the plain, Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane Which leads to her retreat.
See the green s.p.a.ce: on either hand Enlarged it spreads around: See, in the midst she takes her stand, Where one old oak his awful shade Extends o'er half the level mead, Enclosed in woods profound.
Hark! how through many a melting note She now prolongs her lays: How sweetly down the void they float!
The breeze their magic path attends; The stars s.h.i.+ne out; the forest bends; The wakeful heifers gaze.
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring To this sequestered spot, If then the plaintive Siren sing, O softly tread beneath her bower And think of Heaven's disposing power, Of man's uncertain lot.
O think, o'er all this mortal stage What mournful scenes arise: What ruin waits on kingly rage; How often virtue dwells with woe; How many griefs from knowledge flow; How swiftly pleasure flies!
O sacred bird! let me at eve, Thus wandering all alone, Thy tender counsel oft receive, Bear witness to thy pensive airs, And pity Nature's common cares, Till I forget my own.
Mark Akenside [1721-1770]
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
O nightingale that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why.
Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I.
John Milton [1608-1674]
PHILOMELA
The Nightingale, as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late-bare Earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making; And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth, For Tereus' force on her chaste will prevailing.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Alas! she hath no other cause of anguish But Tereus' love, on her by strong hand wroken; Wherein she suffering, all her spirits languish, Full womanlike, complains her will was broken, But I, who, daily craving, Cannot have to content me, Have more cause to lament me, Since wanting is more woe than too much having.
O Philomela fair, O take some gladness That here is juster cause of plaintful sadness!
Thine earth now springs, mine fadeth; Thy thorn without, my thorn my heart invadeth.
Philip Sidney [1554-1586]
ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE