FAME tells of groves--from England far away-- Groves that inspire the Nightingale to trill And modulate, with subtle reach of skill Elsewhere unmatched, her ever-varying lay; Such bold report I venture to gainsay: For I have heard the quire of Richmond hill Chanting, with indefatigable bill, Strains that recalled to mind a distant day; When, haply under shade of that same wood, And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 10 Plied steadily between those willowy shores, The sweet-souled Poet of the Seasons stood-- Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood, Ye heavenly Birds! to your Progenitors.
