Verse > Anthologies > Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. > The Oxford Book of English Verse
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Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
  
Mark Akenside. 1721–1770
  
463. The Nightingale
  
TO-NIGHT retired, the queen of heaven 
  With young Endymion stays; 
And now to Hesper it is given 
Awhile to rule the vacant sky, 
Till she shall to her lamp supply         5
  A stream of brighter rays. 
 
Propitious send thy golden ray, 
  Thou purest light above! 
Let no false flame seduce to stray 
Where gulf or steep lie hid for harm;  10
But lead where music's healing charm 
  May soothe afflicted love. 
 
To them, by many a grateful song 
  In happier seasons vow'd, 
These lawns, Olympia's haunts, belong:  15
Oft by yon silver stream we walk'd, 
Or fix'd, while Philomela talk'd, 
  Beneath yon copses stood. 
 
Nor seldom, where the beechen boughs 
  That roofless tower invade,  20
We came, while her enchanting Muse 
The radiant moon above us held: 
Till, by a clamorous owl compell'd, 
  She fled the solemn shade. 
 
But hark! I hear her liquid tone!  25
  Now Hesper guide my feet! 
Down the red marl with moss o'ergrown, 
Through yon wild thicket next the plain, 
Whose hawthorns choke the winding lane 
  Which leads to her retreat.  30
 
See the green space: on either hand 
  Enlarged it spreads around: 
See, in the midst she takes her stand, 
Where one old oak his awful shade 
Extends o'er half the level mead,  35
  Enclosed in woods profound. 
 
Hark! how through many a melting note 
  She now prolongs her lays: 
How sweetly down the void they float! 
The breeze their magic path attends;  40
The stars shine out; the forest bends; 
  The wakeful heifers graze. 
 
Whoe'er thou art whom chance may bring 
  To this sequester'd spot, 
If then the plaintive Siren sing,  45
O softly tread beneath her bower 
And think of Heaven's disposing power, 
  Of man's uncertain lot. 
 
O think, o'er all this mortal stage 
  What mournful scenes arise:  50
What ruin waits on kingly rage; 
How often virtue dwells with woe; 
How many griefs from knowledge flow; 
  How swiftly pleasure flies! 
 
O sacred bird! let me at eve,  55
  Thus wandering all alone, 
Thy tender counsel oft receive, 
Bear witness to thy pensive airs, 
And pity Nature's common cares, 
  Till I forget my own.  60
 
 
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