TO A NIGHTINGALE. 



As it fell upon a day, 



In the merry month of May, 



Sitting in a pleasant shade, 



Which a grove of myrtles made ; 



Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, 



Trees did grow, and plants did spring; 



Everything did banish moan. 



Save the nightingale alone. 



She, poor bird, as all forlorn. 



Leaned her breast up — till a thorn; 



And there sung the dolefull'st ditty. 



That to hear it was great pity. 



Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; ^" 



Teru, teru, by and by; 



That, to hear her so complain, 



Scarce I could from tears refrain; 



For her griefs, so lively shewn, 



Made me think upon mine own. 



Ah ! — thought I — thou mourn'st in vain; 



None takes pity on thy pain : 



Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee ; 



Riithless bears, they will not cheer thee ; 



King Pandion, he is dead ; 



All thy friends are lapped in lead ; 



All thy fellow-birds do sing. 



Careless of thy sorrowing! 



— Richard Barnfield. 



Old English Poet. 



141 



