To the Nightingale Analysis

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!

How many Bards in city garret pent,

While at their window they with downward eye

Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,

And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen

(Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!),

How many wretched Bards address thy name,

And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above.

But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,

Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid

Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.

O! I have listen'd, till my working soul,

Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,

Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft,

I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight

Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!

'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird!

That all thy soft diversities of tone,

Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs

That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp,

What time the languishment of lonely love

Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,

Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,

My Sara - best beloved of human kind!

When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,

She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name!

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