TO THE NIGHTINGALE NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve when all the woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. ON HIS BLINDNESS THEN I consider how my light is spent W Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent ON HIS DECEASED WIFE ETHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint MET Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from Death by force, though pale and faint. Mine, as whom wash'd from spot of child-bed taint Purification in the Old Law did save, And such as yet once more I trust to have But oh! as to embrace me she inclined, I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night. TO SLEEP A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? S URPRISED by joy-impatient as the Wind I turn'd to share the transport-Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recall'd thee to my mind But how could I forget Thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss?—That thought's return Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; |