A Conversation Poem, Written in April 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken dayDistinguishes the West, no long thin slipOf sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,Bur hear no murmuring: it flows silently,O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,Yet let us think upon the vernal showersThat gladden the green earth, and we shall findA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!In Nature there is nothing melancholy.But some night-wandering man whose heart was piercedWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,Or slow distemper, or neglected love,(And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with himself,And made all gentle sounds tell back the taleOf his own sorrow) he, and such as he,First named these notes a melancholy strain.And many a poet echoes the conceit;Poet who hath been building up the rhymeWhen he had better far have stretched his limbsBeside a brook in mossy forest-dell,By sun or moon-light, to the influxesOf shapes and sounds and shifting elementsSurrendering his whole spirit, of his songAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fameShould share in Nature's immortality,A venerable thing! and so his songShould make all Nature lovelier, and itselfBe loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;And youths and maidens most poetical,Who lose the deepening twilights of the springIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they stillFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighsO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learntA different lore: we may not thus profaneNature's sweet voices, always full of loveAnd joyance! 'Tis the merry NightingaleThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitatesWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,As he were fearful that an April nightWould be too short for him to utter forthHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soulOf all its music!

And I know a groveOf large extent, hard by a castle huge,Which the great lord inhabits not; and soThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.But never elsewhere in one place I knewSo many nightingales; and far and near,In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,They answer and provoke each other's songs,With skirmish and capricious passagings,And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,And one low piping sound more sweet than all--Stirring the air with such an harmony,That should you close your eyes, you might almostForget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed,You may perchance behold them on the twigs,Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shadeLights up her love-torch.

A most gentle Maid,Who dwelleth in her hospitable homeHard by the castle, and at latest eve(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicateTo something more than Nature in the grove)Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moonEmerging, hath awakened earth and skyWith one sensation, and those wakeful birdsHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,As if some sudden gale had swept at onceA hundred airy harps! And she hath watchedMany a nightingale perch giddilyOn blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,And to that motion tune his wanton songLike tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!We have been loitering long and pleasantly,And now for our dear homes.--That strain again!Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,Who, capable of no articulate sound,Mars all things with his imitative lisp,How he would place his hand beside his ear,His little hand, the small forefinger up,And bid us listen! And I deem it wiseTo make him Nature's play-mate. He knows wellThe evening-star; and once, when he awokeIn most distressful mood (some inward painHad made up that strange thing, an infant's dream),I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,While his fair eyes, that swam with undroppedtears,Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!--It is a father's tale: But if that HeavenShould give me life, his childhood shall grow upFamiliar with these songs, that with the nightHe may associate joy.--Once more, farewell,Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends!farewell.