To
the
NIGHTINGALE
.
EXert
thy
Voice
,
sweet
Harbinger
of
Spring
!
This
Moment
is
thy
Time
to
Sing
,
This
Moment
I
attend
to
Praise
,
And
set
my
Numbers
to
thy
Layes
.
Free
as
thine
shall
be
my
Song
;
As
thy
Musick
,
short
,
or
long
.
Poets
,
wild
as
thee
,
were
born
,
Pleasing
best
when
unconfin'd
,
When
to
Please
is
least
design'd
,
Soothing
but
their
Cares
to
rest
;
Cares
do
still
their
Thoughts
molest
,
And
still
th'
unhappy
Poet's
Breast
,
Like
thine
,
when
best
he
sings
,
is
plac'd
against
a
Thorn
.
She
begins
,
Let
all
be
still
!
Muse
,
thy
Promise
now
fulfill
!
Sweet
,
oh
!
sweet
,
still
sweeter
yet
Can
thy
Words
such
Accents
fit
,
Canst
thou
Syllables
refine
,
Melt
a
Sense
that
shall
retain
Still
some
Spirit
of
the
Brain
,
Till
with
Sounds
like
these
it
join
.
'Twill
not
be
!
then
change
thy
Note
;
Let
Division
shake
thy
Throat
.
Hark
!
Division
now
she
tries
;
Yet
as
far
the
Muse
outflies
.
Cease
then
,
prithee
,
cease
thy
Tune
;
Trifler
,
wilt
thou
sing
till
June
?
Till
thy
Bus'ness
all
lies
waste
,
And
the
Time
of
Building's
past
!
Thus
we
Poets
that
have
Speech
,
Unlike
what
thy
Forests
teach
,
If
a
fluent
Vein
be
shown
That's
transcendent
to
our
own
,
Criticize
,
reform
,
or
preach
,
Or
censure
what
we
cannot
reach
.