Poem by James Thomson

To the Nightingale

O nightingale, best poet of the grove,
That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee,
Blessed in the full possession of thy love:
O lend that strain, sweet Nighingale, to me!

'Tis mine, alas! to mourn a wretched fate:
I love a maid who all my bosom charms,
Yet lose my days without this lovely mate;
Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms.

You happy birds! by nature's simple laws
Lead your soft lives, sustained by nature's fare;
You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,
And love and song is all your pleasing care:

But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride,
Dare not be blessed, lest envious tongues should blame;
And hence, in vain I languish for my bride!
O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame. 

1. Happiness of a Country Life
2. To Myra
3. On the Death of His Mother
4. Care of Birds for Their Young
5. The Morning Lark

Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea To the Nightingale ("Exert thy voice, sweet harbinger of spring!")

Print

1041 Views

The Last Poems

To Russian version