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A CONVERSATIONAL POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL,
NO cloud, no relique of the sunken day
*.“ Most musical, most melancholy.” This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description : It is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic
A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
heart was pierc'd
propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line iu Milton: A charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible.
Be lov'd, like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the
paths, Lut never elsewhere in one place I knew So many Nightingales; and far and near In wood and thicket over the wide grove They answer and provoke each others songs . With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug, jug,
And one low piping sound more sweet thanall
you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leafits are but half disclos'd You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright
and full, Glist'ning, while many a glow-worm in the
shade Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle maid
co (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove): Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their
notes, That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the Moon Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky Withi one sensation, and those wakeful Birds Have all burst forth i'ekorallsinstrelsy, ys:T As if one quickland sudden Gale had strept An hundred'airy hargg! And she hath watch'd
Many a Nightingale perch giddily
Farewell, O Warbler! -till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends! farewell, a short fare
well! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.--That strain
again! Full fain it would delay me!--My dear Babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, 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
Jream) I hurried with him to our orchard plot, And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes that swam with undropit