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.
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