Hark! that's the nightingale,
Telling the self-same tale
Her song told when this ancient earth was young:
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Hark! that's the nightingale,
Telling the self-same tale
Her song told when this ancient earth was young:
So echoes answered when her song was sung
In the first wooded vale.

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winter's past or coming void of care,
Well read more

Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours,
Of winter's past or coming void of care,
Well pleased with delights which present are,
Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers.

To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep.

To the red rising moon, and loud and deep
The nightingale is singing from the steep.

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The read more

The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark
When neither is attended; and I think
The nightingale, if she should sing by day
When every goose is cackling, would be thought
No better a musician than the wren.
How many thing by season seasoned are
To their right praise and true perfection!

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I read more

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown.

The nightingale appear'd the first,
And as her melody she sang,
The apple into blossom burst,
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The nightingale appear'd the first,
And as her melody she sang,
The apple into blossom burst,
To life the grass and violets sprang.

O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;
Thou read more

O 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.

The angel of spring, the mellow-throated nightingale.

The angel of spring, the mellow-throated nightingale.

'Tis the merry nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
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'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-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!