TO
THE
NIGHTINGALE
.
WHY
from
these
shades
,
sweet
bird
of
eve
,
Art
thou
to
other
regions
wildly
fled
?
Thy
pensive
song
would
oft
my
cares
relieve
,
Thy
melancholy
softness
oft
would
shed
Peace
on
my
weary
soul
:
return
again
,
Return
,
and
,
sadly
sweet
,
in
melting
notes
complain
.
At
the
still
hour
I'll
come
alone
,
And
listen
to
thy
love-lorn
plaintive
lay
;
Or
when
the
moon
beams
o'er
yon
mossy
stone
,
I'll
watch
thy
restless
wing
from
spray
to
spray
,
And
when
the
swelling
cadence
slow
shall
rise
,
I'll
join
the
harmony
with
low
and
murm'ring
sighs
.
Oh
,
simple
bird
!
where
art
thou
flown
?
What
distant
woodland
now
receives
thy
nest
?
What
distant
echo
answers
to
thy
moan
,
What
distant
thorn
supports
thy
aching
breast
?
Whoe'er
can
feel
thy
misery
like
me
,
Or
pay
thee
for
thy
song
with
such
sad
sympathy
?