110 
THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
Most musical, most melancholy bird ! 
A melancholy bird ? — oh ! idle thought ! 
In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
But some night-wandering man, whose heart was 
pierced 
With the resemblance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love. 
First named these notes a melancholy strain; 
And youths and maidens most poetical. 
Who lose the deepening twilight of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still, 
Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleasing strains. 
My friend, and thou, our sister, we have learnt 
A different lore ; we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! ^Tis the merry Nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates. 
With fast thick warble, his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chaunt, and disburden his full soul 
Of all his music ! 
