Hark! ah, the nightingale The tawny-throated! Hark from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark!what pain! * * * * * * Listen, Eugenia How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Againthou hearest? Eternal passion! Eternal pain! Matthew ArnoldPhilomela. L. 32.
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! ColeridgeThe Nightingale. L. 43.
Sweet bird, that singst away the early hours, Of winters past or coming void of care, Well pleaséd with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers. DrummondSonnet. To a Nightingale.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side; and now tis buried deep In the next valley-glades: Was it a vision, or a waking dream? Fled is that music:do I wake or sleep? KeatsTo a Nightingale.
Soft as Memnons harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice Minds us of our better choice. John KebleThe Nightingale.
O nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lovers heart dost fill While the jolly hours lead on propitious May. MiltonSonnet. To the Nightingale.
Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, Mourning her ravishd young or much-loved mate, A soothing charm oer all the valleys throws And skies, with notes well tuned to her sad state. PetrarchTo Laura in Death. Sonnet XLIII.
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come, darkness, moonrise, everything That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale. Christina G. RossettiBird Raptures.
Hark! thats 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. Christina G. RossettiTwilight Calm. St. 7.
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 things by season seasond are To their right praise, and true perfection! Merchant of Venice. Act V. Sc. 1. L. 104.
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day: It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That piercd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Romeo and Juliet. Act III. Sc. 5. L. 1.
The nightingale as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making. And mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth. Sir Philip SidneyO Philomela Fair.
Under the linden, On the meadow, Where our bed arranged was, There now you may find een In the shadow Broken flowers and crushed grass. Near the woods, down in the vale, Tandaradi! Sweetly sang the nightingale. Walter von der VogelweideTrans. in The Minnesinger of Germany. Under the Linden.
Last night the nightingale woke me, Last night, when all was still. It sang in the golden moonlight, From out the woodland hill. Christian WintherSehnsucht. Trans. used by Marzials in his song. Last Night.