That, should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day. A most gentle Maid Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate To something more than nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song, Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, And now for our dear homes.-That strain again! Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well The evening star: and once when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) I hurried with him to our orchard plot, And he beholds the moon, and hushed at once Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! WellIt is a father's tale. But if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate Joy! Once more farewell, Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! fare well. |