THE MOTHER NIGHTINGALE.
FROM THE SPANISH.
I have seen a nightingale,
On a sprig of thyme bewail,
Seeing the dear nest, which was
Hers alone, borne off, alas!
By a laborer. I heard,
For this outrage, the poor bird
Say a thousand mournful things
To the wind, which, on its wings,
From her to the guardian of the sky,
Bore her melancholy cry—
Bore her tender tears. She spake
As if her fond heart would break:
One while, in a sad, sweet note,
Gurgled from her straining throat;
She enforced her piteous tale,
Mournful prayer, and plaintive wail;
One while with the shrill dispute,
Quite outwearied, she was mute;
Then afresh for her dear brood,
Her harmonious shrieks renewed.
Now she winged it round and round;
Now she skimmed along the ground;
Now, from bough to bough, in haste,
The delighted robber chased,
And, alighting in his path,
Seemed to say, ’twixt grief and wrath,
“Give me back, fierce rustic rude—
Give me back my pretty brood!”
And I saw the rustic still
Answered, “That I never will!”
Translation of T. Roscoe. Estevan Manuel de Villegas, 1595–1669.